


The Banality of Love

by sandwich_tales



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Espionage, F/M, Pining, Politics, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2020-08-11 14:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20155339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwich_tales/pseuds/sandwich_tales
Summary: “The essence of totalitarian government, and perhaps the nature of every bureaucracy, is to make functionaries and mere cogs in the administrative machinery out of men, and thus to dehumanize them.“After Voldemort wins over Wizarding Britain, Hermione emerges from hiding to undertake a dangerous mission for the now-decimated Order. Using a modified Polyjuice Potion, she adopts a new identity and begins working undercover at the Ministry of Magic, alongside Draco Malfoy.





	1. One

The strangest thing about Voldemort’s new world, Hermione thought, looking at the forms marked “APPLICATION FOR EMPLOYMENT - MINISTRY OF MAGIC” spread on the table before her, was how fucking banal it was. And, though she hated to admit it, how organized it was. Rational, even.

Tom Riddle had spent his early childhood in the Muggle world, after all. How ironic it was that his shining Pureblood city on a hill bore everywhere the traces of Muggle influence in its imposed order. Brutal, yes, but undeniably efficient. In many ways the opposite of magic itself, which was essentially chaotic, unpredictable, frustrating.

She remembered returning from her first, deeply unsettling trip to Diagon Alley, the summer she got her Hogwarts letter in the post. Trying to explain to her parents over dinner exactly why she needed to buy quills and ink when ballpoint pens, as her mother pointed out reasonably, would do just as well. Or why there were 29 Knuts to a Sickle (she still didn’t know why — no book on the history of Wizarding currency had provided a satisfactorily-researched answer).

Unlike her, Harry had never been bothered by this aspect of Wizarding society. Had leapt into it headfirst, in fact, eager to trade his Muggle habits and tastes for magical ones, pumpkin juice for Coca-cola, the Cannons for Arsenal.

Perhaps it was because his upbringing had been so fairy-tale-like in its abuse and neglect—the poor little magical boy kept in the cupboard by his Evil Relatives—that he never experienced the satisfying predictability of what Hermione, secretly and only ever to herself, still called the normal world. That feeling of being able to look at a bus timetable and know where it was headed, and when and where it would stop. Or taking medication that she knew had been subjected to rigorous scientific testing and governmental review when she was ill, rather than being handed an unlabeled, glowing potion and being told to “Drink up dear, nevermind what’s in the bottle,” by a well-meaning Madame Pomfrey when she asked questions.

The past six months had given her ample time, too much time, to think such thoughts. Her last safe house had been the worst, four weeks in Dedalus Diggle’s garden shed. Separated from the rest of the Order, ostensibly for her own safety, but really, as Hermione knew, and understood, for theirs.

The Ministry’s Peace Keepers, the DMLE’s new arm that functioned essentially as Voldemort’s own little secret police force, had upgraded her to Undesirable Number Two. They thought Harry was in love with her, that he’d come out of hiding if they caught her. Hermione didn’t mind the fiction as long as it kept Ginny safe, out of the top ten Undesirables. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if the Order had planted the rumors with that goal in mind.

They’d joked about the “promotion,” her and Ron (Undesirable Number Six, everyone always underestimated Ron), before she’d been whisked away to the first in a chain of safe houses.

“You just always have to beat me, don’t you ‘Mione,” he’d said, a little tenderly. He didn’t even hug her, just looked at her with his lopsided smile that made her heart flip over. It was evening and the fireflies were out. They stood together in the garden, only an arm’s length apart, but it felt like some unspeakable distance. Kingsley, who was supposed to escort her, had turned away and pretended to be fascinated by an old watering can.

It was one of those moments, she reflected later in Diggle’s shed, lying on her bed and repeatedly casting _Scourgify_ on a stubborn patch of Bundimun on the ceiling, that was a Moment. If she was in a film, she’d have leaned up on tiptoes, would’ve said something cute and dumb, like, “Well you just always make it too easy, Ron,” before kissing him. But she hadn’t. Why hadn’t she? Why hadn’t she?

When she wasn’t thinking about her love life or battling the Bundimum infestation or watching the light from the single narrow window move across the shed wall, she’d daydreamed about how her life would have gone if she hadn’t gone to Hogwarts. If she’d been sensible and listened to her mother’s advice and written back, _Dear Professor Dumbledore, Thank you for your letter, but I must decline your offer of admission_ or some other such polite dismissal, and gone back to normal life. She wondered where she would have gone to college. If she would have gone into research and become a scientist, or a doctor. She’d have friends who’d force her to get pedicures together, or go clubbing. She’d share a cramped flat with roommates in London. They’d drink too much wine and watch crap telly. There’d be a boyfriend, or a guy she liked who she could kiss without worrying about whether either of them would survive the year, or worse, be used as bait to lure the Chosen One into launching a suicidal rescue mission.

She certainly wouldn’t be here, sitting in yet another unknown basement (“Better that you don’t know,” Fred had said apologetically, before blindfolding her and shoving a Portkey in her hand), staring down a stack of paperwork that represented possibly the most insane idea she’d heard yet.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

Lupin just looked at her. “I’ll ask you one more time, Miss Granger. And I want you to really think about what it means when you agree. This is a long term, solo assignment.” He leaned forward in his chair. “You will need to use Unforgivables. You will need to lie, every moment of every day. You will need to pretend to love those whom you despise, and despise those whom you love. You will need to watch innocent people suffer. And you will need to hurt them.”

Hermione thought she had never seen Lupin look more tired.

“I’ll do it,” she said again. Still, Lupin hesitated. “I _need_ to do this,” she said, voice rising. “I _need_ to make myself useful. Please, Professor, I’m useless hiding in safe houses wondering how it's going to end. I can’t hear about anyone else dying without being able to do something about it.”

She thought he’d remind her, for the umpteenth time, “You can call me Remus, you know.” It was their little joke when conversations took a dark turn, as they did more and more often these days. But Lupin just looked down at some papers he held in his hand and cleared his throat.

“Miss Granger, how many people have you killed?”

Hermione’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “One.” He looked at her, eyes kind.

“How many times have you successfully used the Imperius curse?”

“I’ve never used the Imperius curse.”

“Miss Granger, I would like you to attempt to use the Imperius curse on me now.” Hermione almost let out a choked laugh. It was like a demented alternate universe version of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Except instead of teaching her how to vanquish Boggarts, he was literally instructing her in dark magic. She felt oddly calm as she raised her wand and pointed it at him. Her hand wasn’t shaking. Not at all. Lupin looked at her steadily, eyebrows tilted slightly upwards. She took a deep breath and centered her mind.

“_Imperio._” Hermione felt a slight surge of static, and she knew, as easy as that, the curse had taken. It was a strange feeling—she had never asked Harry to tell her about what it felt like, but if she had to describe it, she might say it was like suddenly discovering a new limb. Except her new limb was Lupin’s mind. It would be effortless to make him do anything, she realized, as effortless as taking a step backwards, or imagining the color blue. She shivered. _Tell me what Ron is doing_, she thought.

Lupin spoke without hesitation, eyes glazed over. “Ron is currently directing an operation to cut off Voldemort’s sources of funding, from international sources as well as domestic. He is based in—“

“_Finite Incantatum_,” Hermione said hastily. She shouldn’t have asked—Order members were kept as ignorant as possible about one another’s activities in case of capture or betrayal, but she had wanted so badly to hear about him for months.

And, she admitted, some dark part of her had been angry Lupin had doubted her ability to cast an Unforgiveable. Angry that he doubted her. As if she were too weak to do what needed to be done. It wasn’t just Lupin, it was all of them—Harry and Ron especially, but also Kingsley, Molly, Aberforth...They all thought she wasn’t cut out for real war, that she was too self-righteous, too emotional, still the same girl afraid of dying, or worse, being expelled. _And they’re right, aren’t they_, the nasty little voice said in her head. _You are too weak. Too weak to save Parvarti, weren’t you._ The voice sounded remarkably like Snape’s.

“That was...very good,” Lupin said, his voice cutting through her thoughts. His eyes studied her face for a moment, assessing. At first she felt a hot flush of shame and guilt—she was back at Hogwarts again, caught by a professor helping Harry and Ron break the rules—but then she reminded herself that Hogwarts had fallen. They had lost. The dead had littered the field like autumn leaves. Again she saw Parvarti, the gold bracelet that she never took off, winking cruelly on her wrist.

Hermione returned Lupin’s gaze, tilting her chin up. “I told you. I’m ready, Remus.”

—————————————————————————————-

Tamora Peep had just finished up her evening jog and was about to let herself back into her flat when she noticed that the door to number thirteen was slightly ajar. Several loud thumps emanated from the room beyond, and then a woman’s voice, hissing, “Bollocks! Oh, behave, damn you!” Curious. She scooped up the latest copy of Witch Weekly she’d forgotten to grab in the morning and was about to head inside for a nice cuppa when the voice yelled again. “Stop, stop! Ow!” Tamora frowned and crossed the hall, knocking on the door before tentatively pulling it open.

“Everything all right in there, love?” She poked her head in and was greeted by the sight of a blonde witch being chased and repeatedly smacked with a broom.

“Yes, er, everything’s under...control!”

Tamora rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, I can see that. _Finite Incantatum_.” With a flick of her wand she sent the broom clattering to the floor. The blonde witch leaned over with her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. Tamora walked over and led her to an oversized, squashy floral armchair, the only piece of furniture in the flat. “There, there, take your time, dear. Catch your breath.”

The blonde witch let out a long sigh and looked up. “Thanks so much for your help. I’ve never been one for Charms, I’m afraid. Barely avoided getting a Troll in my O.W.L.” She laughed as if she had made some particularly funny joke.

“Don’t worry about it, darling. Are you just moving in?” Tamora scanned the room eagerly. Aside from the couch, there was only the broom, a single cardboard box on the floor, and several large dust bunnies. There were no personal effects in sight.

“Yes I—oh, silly, I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I’m—“ The witch paused, and then coughed, “Sorry, got a little frog in my throat. I’m Amanda, but you can call me Mandy. I suppose we’re neighbors?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m Tamora Peep. Ever so pleased to meet you.” And this was why she always took her business cards with her, even when jogging. She dug into a pouch around her waist and pulled out a stack of cards, handing the lot to Mandy.

“Oh, er...” A cloud of rose-colored bubbles floated up as Mandy attempted to read the text swirling across the paper. “Tamora Peep...Divinator of All Things Amatory...and...Erotic?”

Tamora giggled. “Your first reading is on the house! And,” she winked at Mandy, who seemed to be blushing, “if you refer a friend you get a discount as well. That’s what the extra cards are for.”

“Well, that’s very kind, because I _love_ divination.” Indeed, Mandy’s smile was stretched so wide it almost looked like a grimace. “I’m absolutely _fascinated_ with it.”

“Is that true! Well I’d love to have you over for a cuppa when things settle down here a bit. We shall commune with the spirits together!” Tamora did her best to sail out of the room dramatically, rather difficult in her Muggle athletic wear. “Ciao, my dear!”

_Awkward girl_, Tamora thought to herself as she charmed the kettle to boil back in her flat. _Ideal customer, though. Definitely needs some help in the amatory department._

—————————————————————————————-

When she was sure Tamora had left, Mandy shut the door and bolted it, then cast _Silencio_ over the room. Moving to the box, she tapped it with her wand, and what looked like the contents of a doll house floated out. With another flick of her wand she sent the items sailing. They grew as they zoomed into place, and in a matter of moments, an entire apartment’s worth of furniture had appeared. The flat was silent. Slowly, Mandy walked toward the new mirror over the mantelpiece. She touched her face in the glass.

“Hello,” she whispered. “My name is Amanda Brocklehurst. You can call me Mandy. I just moved here from the States. I grew up in Wimbourne. My father is a herbologist. My mother was a Potioneer. She recently died from a Potions accident, and I moved back to Britain to be closer to my father. I am a half-blood. I was a Ravenclaw at Hogwarts. I was terrible at Charms and Transfiguration. I excelled in Herbology, Potions, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy. I’m about to start a new position in the ministry. I’m very excited. Nothing much more than filing and paperwork, I’m afraid, but it’s an honor to be serving the Dark Lord, of course. My hobbies include dabbling in divination and gardening. Most of my close friends are in the States, so I’m looking to meet people now that I’m back. I was rather shy at Hogwarts, you see. Came out of my shell when I moved to New York. My parents thought it would be best, so I could get away from the war.”

Mandy was pretty, she decided. Not beautiful, the way Ginny was with her flaming hair and blue eyes, but cute, with her wavy, chin-length golden hair that framed a cherubic face, her dark brows winging over narrow hazel eyes, her small, pouty mouth with the corners that drooped down. She pulled a wide smile, then a frown, then faked a gasp of shock. Terrible. Why had she ever thought she could do this. For a moment a different face superimposed itself over her reflection. A frizzy cloud of hair, dark eyes, a wide, thin lipped, expressive mouth. She shook her head to clear it.

“I hate sending you out there without teaching you Occlumency,” Lupin had said, “but with Severus and Albus gone...”

So she had done what she did best—studied. She read every book on Occlumency the Order could get their hands on, and the sources seemed to agree that the best way to avoid being caught in such a situation was to believe her own lie as much as possible. It was kind of, she supposed, like Muggle method acting. She was Mandy Brocklehurst. She even had Mandy’s memories.

That day, the day she _Imperio_’d Lupin, he had led her to a room, scarcely larger than a broom cupboard. A single mattress took up most of the space, and next to it, a Pensieve pulsed softly with blue light.

Mandy had been sick, Lupin told her. She had been sick for a long time, and her parents had sent her to the States to work with a Specialist healer there but nothing took, and she knew she was dying. And it was a lie, what she had said about not having close friends at Hogwarts. She had had one friend. A single friend. Mandy told Luna what she wanted to do, and then her father. They both agreed, and so one cold February day Luna arrived at Twelve Grimmauld Place with Mandy's body draped in a white cloth, and a cauldron roiling with memories.

Every day for a month Hermione had walked through carefully selected moments from Mandy’s life. Sitting in the fresh wet earth with her father, carefully potting seedlings. Her eighth birthday party, where she accidentally did magic for the first time (relighting her blown out birthday candles). The old cat who liked to sleep in the greenhouse and used to chase her about till she cried. Getting her Hogwarts letter. Feeling lonely, a rustic country bumpkin, in the Ravenclaw common room. Her devastating crush on Draco Malfoy, of all people. Working as a filing clerk at the Carnegie Runic Library in New York. Her first kiss, with an gangly assistant Auror at MACUSA.

Hermione relived the memories so often, attended to them so closely, that they became like structures in her mind, facades she could put up over her real memories. They were fragile and paperlike, and could stand up to only the most basic form of Legilimency, but, as Lupin assured her, few in the Ministry were capable of real, sustained Legilimency anyway, and she would have no need to be around them, or be suspected by them, if she did her job right.

If she did her job right.

“_I know I don’t need to remind you, Hermione, of how dangerous this assignment is._” Lupin’s voice floated back to her. He had started calling her Hermione instead of Miss Granger when she had stopped calling him Professor. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked it.

Halfway through her month of preparation, Lupin had summoned her for another meeting. With gloved hands, he’d slid an old cigar box across the table. Inside lay a small ring, shining a dull, burnished gold.

“Go on,” he’d said.

Hermione had lifted it up and held it to the lamplight. A tiny gold wasp with rubies for eyes perched on its top, and as she slid the ring on her finger, it buzzed for a moment before settling back down.

“Bill found that one a couple months ago,” he nodded at her finger. “Thought it might come in handy. It’s goblin-wrought. Priceless, really.”

“Oh, Remus, you shouldn’t have,” Hermione joked. Lupin smiled, but his eyes were serious.

“That, Hermione, is living Novacula wasp, transfigured into gold. It obeys its bearer—the incantation is _Angor Inwit_, and then you merely have to envision its target. Its flight radius is limited to one meter, but its movement is almost instantaneous. Its sting is painless, and the victim will immediately slip into a death-like coma. If the antivenom is not administered within six hours, the coma state will become permanent. I,” he said, patting the pocket of his tweed jacket, “will be the only one with the antivenom.”

Hermione stared down at the ring. “It’s beautiful,” she said quietly. And then louder, “It’s meant for me, isn’t it.”

Lupin sighed. “Yes. It’s our failsafe. It only has one use, and there are more efficient, less suspicious ways to handle enemies. I don’t envision you needing to use it, of course. Your position is meant to be strictly passive until we need to activate you. It’s more important to become dependable, unimportant—”

“I know, Remus. Dependable. Unimportant. Unnoticed.” The three words that she’d been repeating to herself again and again the past two weeks, until she heard them in her dreams.

She said the words again now, looking back at Mandy’s reflection. Her reflection. She was Mandy.  
“Hi, I’m Amanda Brocklehurst,” she whispered again. “You can call me Mandy. I’m dependable. Unimportant. Unnoticed.”

She’d almost slipped today. Almost said to Tamora Peep, “Hi, I’m Hermione Granger.” _Idiot_, she heard not-Snape sneer in her head. _Hi, I’m Hermione fucking Granger. You might have heard of me? Undesirable Number Two? Why don’t you go on and report me to the Peacekeepers, collect that ten thousand Galleon bounty the Dark Lord’s got on my head._

She walked over to that awful floral armchair she’d had to bring (Mandy’s favorite), and sank into it. Only then did she notice that Tamora must have dropped her copy of _Witch Weekly_ when she came in to help Hermione with her (staged) Charms fiasco. She picked it up, intending to toss it in the bin, when a flash of several familiar faces caught her eye. Stomach sinking, she looked down at the cover.

Draco Malfoy smirked at her. He was oh-so-casually leaning back against some white modernist cube masquerading as a table, crossing one long black-trousered leg over the other, hair artfully ruffling in the wind. She could just imagine the exhausted intern casting _Ventus_ at him behind the camera. He was dressed in a variation of the uniform he had adopted sometime around fifth year, a combination of Muggle clothing and wizarding robes, a charcoal grey turtleneck and grey jacket with black robes casually draped over his shoulders. A strategic hint of stubble on his jaw. At his left and right she recognized Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini in similarly affected poses. Pansy Parkinson smoldered in a smoky gown, leaning against Malfoy’s knees, and someone she vaguely recognized as Daphne Greengrass’s younger sister perched on the edge of the table, hand resting on Zacharias Smith’s shoulder, who was doing his best to copy the Slytherin smirk and failing at it terribly. And at the far right, standing on her own, in a heartbreakingly beautiful black pantsuit, stood Parvarti Patil. She didn’t smirk or smile like the others. Her kohl-rimmed eyes stared balefully, accusingly, at Hermione. She gasped and dropping the magazine, then forced herself to pick it up again to read the headline.

THE SACRED SEVEN: MEET THE YOUNG GUNS REVOLUTIONIZING THE MINISTRY FOR THE FUTURE  
Exclusive story and interview brought to you by Rita Skeeter.

She skimmed the article, phrases floating up to her:

“...Parkinson, appointed by Minister Yaxley straight out of Hogwarts as the new Social Secretary, gushes about the glamorous roster of events she has planned for the season...”

“Draco Malfoy’s eyes smolder like molten silver as he recounts his heroic actions at the Battle of Hogwarts. ‘The rebels were ruthless,’ he says, staring into the distance, clearly traumatized, ‘They were fanatical, they simply could not be reasoned with...We lost so many that day.’”

“‘There’s been too much death these past few years,’ Gryffindor Golden Girl Parvarti Patil tells me, eyes shining. ‘I want to do what I can to contribute to Minister Yaxley’s Five Year Plan. Only when wizards and witches unite can we be at peace...”

Hermione violently crumpled the magazine into a ball and threw it in the bin. She’d finish organizing her things and turn in early, she decided. Her first day of work was tomorrow, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi there, thanks for reading. This is the first time I've ever posted a fic, so I'd love to hear any constructive criticism or comments or things you'd like to see happen in the story! As you might have guessed, Hannah Arendt's _Eichmann in Jerusalem_ is one of the major inspirations for this story. I've always been fascinated by how Voldemort would run Wizarding Britain if he had won, and I wanted to inject some moral ambiguity into the story, and explore the thought processes of those who might not be fanatical Death Eaters, but reluctant collaborators, and the general apathy and banality of of what we might call evil.


	2. Two

Hermione Granger had never been late a day in her life. Mandy Brocklehurst, however, couldn’t be on time if her life depended on it. Or her job, for that matter.

She was due for her orientation at nine o’clock. It would take approximately ten to fifteen minutes to get to the conference room (check in with the receptionist at the desk, Department of Internal Operations, Floor 7 1/2) once she got to the Ministry, depending on which fireplace she Floo’d into. 

Five minutes to move from her designated apparition zone (Zone C) to the women’s loo. Thirty seconds to run over the day’s timetable. Thirty seconds to run over it again. Five minutes to gather her things and put on her shoes. Ten minutes to eat breakfast (tea and toast, two sugars and a splash of milk, wholemeal, Leprechaun’s Finest Un-butter, raspberry preserves, and Hermione could already feel a headache pulsing from the absence of her daily morning dose of black coffee). 

Thirty minutes to shower, get dressed and style her hair, two minutes to make her bed, five minutes to lie in it prostrate with fear before forcing herself to get up. Add five minutes for unexpected interruptions or accidents, and if she wanted to be no less than eight and no more than twelve minutes late she still had a minute to go. 

Hermione stood in her living room, staring at the seconds tick by on her watch. She felt her muscles tense as if they were being wound tighter and tighter with the movement of the clock’s gears. She had this sinking feeling that the second she Apparated from her flat and reported to work at the Ministry, she would lose whatever small bit of say she might still have over her own life. 

Even that first, endless year after the Battle of Hogwarts, where month by month she’d learned to stop counting the empty places at dinner, or noticing how the patrol rosters posted on the kitchen door seemed to get shorter and shorter, when the world shrunk pinpoint small with desperation, she still had a way out. An escape hatch.

She’d almost taken it, the night she returned to headquarters after killing Fenrir. Ginny took one look at her face and pulled out two enormous bottles of Firewhisky from under the floorboards. Everything went downhill from there. She finally broke when Ron tried to pull her to her feet to dance. 

“My ‘Mione, the wolf-slayer!” he slurred, as he pulled her into a stumbling rendition of a waltz. Lorcan d’Eath moaned on the wireless. The hot smell of liquor on Ron’s breath, his arms, normally so comforting, like a steel vise. 

“Sorry, Ron, I’m—I’m going to hurl,” she gasped and flung herself out of his grasp and up the stairs. 

It was Harry who found her, hours later, huddled on the roof, staring at something in her hands. He swung a leg through the attic window and clambered up to where she sat.

“Bloody hell, it’s freezing up here, Hermione.” She refused to look at him.

“I’m not coming down. You can tell Ron I’m fine.”

“Tell him yourself,” he countered. “He didn’t send me. I just thought you might like a blanket. And some company.” A thick, scratchy woolen throw landed on her shoulders. Someone had cast a rather sad Warming Charm on it, so that it was only slightly tepid. 

“You’re a liar, Harry Potter,” she said.

“Yeah, all right, he sent me,” Harry admitted. “He’s worried. And I’m worried, too. I just—” He caught sight of what was in her hands. “Oh.” 

They sat in an uncomfortable quiet together, neither knowing what to say. Then he extended a hand. “May I?”

She handed him her passport. Harry flipped through it, expressionless, then snorted. “Hildebrand Gorger?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“How would you, er…” He gestured vaguely toward the photograph of the puffy looking woman with greasy blonde hair.

“An _Inflatus_ and a _Colovaria_ should do it, I think. And a mild _Confundus_ if necessary.”

“Just as long as you don’t trust your disguise to Ron.” He met her eyes, grinning. “What was it again?”

“Oh god,” she said, surprising herself with the sound of her own laughter. “Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.” She mimicked flicking her wand.

“I can’t believe you still remember that.”

“How could I forget, Harry? I have to hold it against Ron for the rest of his life, after all.” And as easy as that the years slipped away and she was back in the train compartment, rattling along the Scottish countryside, head full of _Hogwarts, A History_, staring at Harry and Ron with a twinge of hope that she would finally, _finally_ have friends. 

Hermione had thought then, secretly, that the world just beginning to unfold before her was unfolding _for_ her, that she, like the heroines of the novels she secretly loved to read, was special. That she’d been handed the golden key that unlocked the golden door, not horrid little Hettie from next door or her cousin Andrew who everyone said would be Prime Minister one day. 

She’d plenty of time to think on the roof, and the conclusion she’d come to wasn’t a pretty one. What she believed, she realized, was not altogether that different from what the Malfoys and the other Muggle-hating families believed. Some part of her subscribed to the delusion that the magical world was not just different, but _better_ than the Muggle world. That magic took away the banality of the world, its senseless cruelty, that it gave life a direction, a meaning, a beauty. Only today had she realized how wrong she’d been.

“I won’t be angry, you know. If you leave, I mean.” Harry had taken off his glasses and was cleaning them on his shirt. “And Ron—well, he’ll be angry, all right, but he’ll also be relieved. He can hardly sleep he’s so worried you’ll be killed out on a raid.” 

“And what about everyone else? McGonagall, Molly, Arthur, Lupin, Ginny? What about Neville, and Luna?” Her voice rose until it was almost a shout, but it was quickly whipped away by the winter wind.

“Honestly?” Harry looked at her. She always forgot how green his eyes were. “Damn them." She stared at him, too shocked for a ready retort. "I’m in this too deep, Hermione. I don’t have any other family. This is it for me. But you’re different. You can leave. Go to your parents. You could even help us from there. Do research. I think the Muggles call it ‘working remotely.’” He tried a smile and handed her passport back.

They sat in silence for a while. Harry was polite enough to pretend he didn't hear her crying. Finally, Hermione sighed, and wiped her face with her sleeve.

“Do you have to be so bloody understanding all the time, Harry?” she asked. “Doesn’t it get tiring?”

He looked out into the night sky. “Yeah, it does. It really does.” 

She climbed back down after that, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts, and almost tripped over Ron, who had fallen asleep in the narrow corridor beneath the attic, waiting, it seemed, for her to come down. Wandlight shimmered on his face, changing him, just for an instant, back into the boy she met on the train, who believed he could turn his rat yellow. Hermione draped the blanket Harry had brought over his lanky form, and gingerly stepped over him. She stopped in the doorway of the boys’ room, lost in thought. Then in one decisive gesture she tapped her wand to her passport. 

“I hope you never have to use this, Hadleigh Pepper,” she had whispered to the jowly, sandy-haired man who had taken Hildebrand’s place. Then she’d shoved the passport under Harry’s pillow and went to bed.

She wondered now if, wherever Harry was, he’d kept it. If he ever thought about using his escape hatch. If the option made him feel better. Or if it made him feel worse. 

“LATE! LATE! YOU’RE RUNNING LATE!” her watch suddenly screamed. Hermione jumped, almost stumbling over her own feet. Damn Mandy’s harridan-faced watch. She looked down and the hag had the temerity to stick a forked tongue out and wiggle it at her. _Not with a whimper but with a bang_, she thought to herself wryly, then Apparated from the flat.

She ended up being fifteen minutes late. _Note to self_, she thought, panting as she walked frantically down the hallway, searching for the correct door, _when scheduling, build in time for lengthy flashback sequences_. A plaque glimmered and came into focus. The words “Department of Information” rippled on its surface. 

“Thank Merlin,” she muttered. She didn’t give her her nerves a chance to falter and shoved the lacquered doors open. 

The office beyond buzzed with activity. The entire far wall had been enchanted to look like floor-to-ceiling windows, if real windows could be perched so high in the sky that they could float above the clouds. The air was filled with paper, pieces of it of all sizes flapping about, folded in the shapes of cranes, others simply drifting in some imaginary breeze. She recognized a page of the _Quibbler_ being shredded by a particularly angry looking young witch until it collapsed in a cloud of black-and-white confetti. 

A wizard carrying an enormous stack of a rather gaudy-looking publication called _The Inner Eye_ nearly bumped into her, the stack teetering precariously as he struggled to keep it from toppling.

“Flippin’ hell,” he grumbled from behind his tower of magazines. “Try and watch where yer going, eh?”

“Oh, er, sorry about that,” she said. He was about to continue on past her when she interrupted him again. “Wait! Erm, would you happen to know where Astoria Greengrass’ office is?”

“Yes.” He still looked miffed. 

“All right, well...would you mind telling me where it is? I’m her new assistant, actually. Mandy Brocklehurst.”

A single arm shot out from behind the stack, pointing left. “Straigh' down that hall, at the very end. Can’ miss it. Tell her I’ll be done with the las' batch of these ‘fore lunch while yer at it.”

Hermione strode forward in the direction the wizard had pointed, hoping she looked confident, though the effect was rather dashed when a particularly aggressive paper crane began to chase her down. 

“Get...away!” she hissed, flapping her hand at it and dashing down the corridor. Technically she was supposed to avoid performing any charms if she could, since Mandy inevitably bollocksed every spell she attempted. When Hermione finally escaped the crane, she looked up to get her bearings, and immediately knew what the wizard had meant when he said, “Can’t miss it.”

Unlike the other Ministry offices Hermione had seen, which involved more doors and walls the more important you were, Astoria’s office was glass on all three sides, with the charmed light from the “window” in the back bouncing off the polished floor, creating the illusion that the room was nothing more than a box of light, floating in thin air.

Hermione walked up to the glass door, passing a small, unobtrusive escritoire in front of it that she supposed would be hers. Taking a deep breath, she knocked, then pushed the door open a crack, poking her head in.

“Sorry to bother you, Miss Greengrass. I’m your new assistant.”

The woman seated at the desk looked up, brows furrowed.

Hermione had never had much opportunity to interact with Daphne at Hogwarts, much less Astoria who was a year younger, but her impression had always been that Daphne was your run-of-the-mill pureblood, more money than sense, with everything purchased by Mummy and Daddy, robes and the looks to go with it. 

The woman sitting in front of her, however, was truly, enchantingly, English-rose-ingly gorgeous in a way that Galleons couldn’t buy, with enormous, liquid-dark eyes and a crooked, expressive mouth. There was even an endearing little gap in her teeth. Astoria had long, dark hair that waved just so, and that insouciant sort of fringe she thought only the Fleurs of the world could pull off. _That wasn’t the sort of thing one could get from a bottle of Sleekeazy's_, Hermione thought enviously.

_You’re supposed to be a spy for the Order_, her not-Snape voice hissed, _not some girlish little fool trying to figure out if she should get a haircut. _

Embarrassed, Hermione shook off her musings and tried to arrange her facial expression into some winning combination of trustworthy, friendly, and dull. 

“Mandy Brocklehurst? New assistant?” she chirped repetitively, with a cheerfulness even she found annoying.

“Oh, Mandy, yes,” Astoria said with a distracted smile. “Of course. Catwell mentioned you were coming today. Come in, please.” She nodded at a plush, pale blue armchair set in the corner of the room that seemed at odds with the rest of the decor. 

“I’m glad they found someone so quickly,” Astoria said, rapidly scanning through some sort of report as she spoke. “We’re really quite overwhelmed at the moment, given the instability of the situation in Scotland. There’s a tremendous amount of responsibility being handed down from up high.” Astoria closed the folder with a decisive snap and looked at Hermione directly for the first time. 

“You do understand what I mean, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I do,” Hermione hurried. Perhaps she had made herself look too dull. “You mean—you mean that the Dark Lord has taken a special interest in this department.”

“The Dark Lord is much too important to concern himself with the day-to-day bureaucracy of the Ministry,” Astoria said sharply. “_However_,” she emphasized, “this Department is under the direct oversight of Minister Yaxley himself. And you can well imagine where the Minister receives his orders. So we comport ourselves very, very carefully here at the Department of Information.”

“I understand, Miss Greengrass,” Hermione said. 

“See that you do.” Having imparted this bit of information, Astoria went back to perusing the stack of folders on her desk. “You’ll have to figure things out on your own as we go. I simply haven’t got the time to train you, but just come in and ask me if you really can’t figure it out.”

Sensing that she was dismissed, Hermione rose to leave.

“Oh, and Mandy?” 

“Yes, Miss Greengrass.”

“Miss Greengrass is my sister. I'm Astoria,” she said. Hermione might have imagined it, but she thought she’d seen the tiniest flicker of warmth in Astoria’s eyes. 

_Voldemort supporter_, she reminded herself as she let the door close behind her and sat down at her new desk. _Basically a Death Eater_. 

The rest of the day passed with an almost shocking amount of normalcy. Hermione kept waiting for someone in the office to realize something was off, to scream, “It’s Hermione Granger!” when she asked them where the tearoom was, or if she could borrow a quill. But no one paid any attention to her whatsoever. 

She was just another bog-standard Ministry drudge, Hermione realized, as interesting as a filing cabinet and about half as useful. 

The younger Hermione Granger, the one from before the war, would have been appalled to see herself here, she thought as she scribbled another meeting into Astoria’s already jammed week. She’d always imagined herself doing something dramatic, heroic, _important_ in the war against Voldemort: finding ancient magical artifacts, making major breakthroughs in enchantments and counter-curses, coming up with plans to rescue Muggle-borns and sabotage Death Eaters. 

Instead she was here, helping to rescue Death Eaters and sabotage Muggle-borns, she reflected bitterly as she dashed off a catering order for Astoria’s weekly lunch meeting with Umbridge, Pansy, and Parvarti. 

“Reminder,” she wrote. “There are to be NO ONIONS served at the Ladies’ Tittle Tattle.” Hermione winced at the name—she was pretty sure she knew who had come up with it—and underlined “NO ONIONS” thrice. Just as she set her quill down and started contemplating fetching another cup of tea, the little porcelain cherub figurine, that she had thought was some decorative knickknack left over from her predecessor, turned its head toward her and opened its mouth. 

Astoria’s breathy voice emerged. “Mandy, my office please.” Then the cherub’s mouth clicked shut and its head swiveled back into place. Hermione shuddered. Times like these were when she missed how sensible—she let herself say it—the normal world was. Magical folk always had to make everything a little whimsical or strange. What was wrong with an intercom, for heaven’s sake? She got to her feet and walked the few steps to Astoria’s office.

“You wanted to see me, Miss...Astoria?”

“Yes, I found a little time to go over a few things with you before I left.” 

Hermione barely had time to put quill to parchment before Astoria launched into a running commentary on practically every aspect of her job.

“...and whenever I need you to rescue me from a meeting, the cherub will let you know. And then you should barge in and apologize, something like ‘So sorry, but Rita Skeeter needs your approval for an article before it goes to press in ten minutes,’ or something like that.” She waved a hand delicately. “Vary the excuse, be creative. Did you get that?”

Hermione nodded. “Mmhmm...Skeeter...ten minutes...be...creative...” she mumbled, scribbling frantically. As she was writing, she heard the door behind her slam open. A gust of wind tickled her hair. It smelled like tobacco, and straw.

“Still at it, you old battleaxe?” 

Hermione stiffened, almost snapping her quill. She’d know the voice anywhere. She’d never heard it sound like this before. It had that teasing lilt she was used to, but it was softened with warmth rather than hardened with cruelty. Like he wanted you to be in on the joke, rather than be the butt of it.

Astoria smiled past her shoulder, at him. “Hullo, Draco.” 

Hermione kept her head down, staring at her notes as if they held the secret to killing Voldemort himself. 

“I know standing me up is your favorite past-time, Astoria, but if I don’t have you around to guard my chastity tonight, Pansy will absolutely _ravish_ me.”

Astoria laughed, gathering up her papers. “Pansy hasn’t wanted to ravish you since she discovered the wonders of the female body in the prefect’s bath fifth year.”

“And what a wonderful year that was.” 

“Anyway, I’m sorry for being late, Draco, I’ve just been swamped with work.”

Malfoy snorted. “How positively bourgeois of you, darling. Isn’t that what the Marchelines of the world are for?” 

Hermione forced herself to turn around slightly and look at him; it wouldn’t do to keep staring out the window like a bloody robot. 

The last time she had seen him in the flesh had been that night at Malfoy Manor. He’d been unkempt, platinum-blond hair sticking to his forehead, soaked in sweat. She remembered his eyes, frantically darting back and forth between Bellatrix and Narcissa, as if he were an animal measuring out the span of his cage. 

She remembered his blurred figure, standing across the room, stock-still, as she burned under his aunt’s Crucio. Hermione had never told Harry, or Ron, or a single living soul, but she had begged, that night, between the bouts of torture. 

First she had begged Bellatrix, drooling, gasping for breath. Then, when some dim part of her realized that _that_ would never work, she switched to begging Malfoy. The worst part of the nightmares she always had of that night was never the pain or the blood, but the pathetic words that had come tumbling out of her mouth, jumbled and pleading. She’d begged for him to save her. Then she’d begged for him to kill her. She’d called him _Draco_, Merlin knew why, because she certainly had never called him that before. She remembered their eyes meeting, brown to silver, for a long moment, before he had turned, walked rapidly from the room.

In front of her now was the new Malfoy, the _Witch Weekly_ Malfoy, all charm and polish and smolder. _Youngest-ever head of the Department of Mysteries_, headlines screamed. But she’d had the measure of the boy, and she had the measure of the man. 

Hermione realized that she had been staring at Malfoy rather intensely, and broke her gaze, pretending to make edits to her notes.

“Oh right,” Astoria said, Accio-ing her cloak. “I forgot to tell you. Marcheline, funny thing, just stopped showing up a few weeks ago. Resigned by owl, in a hurry, too. This is my new assistant, Mandy.”

Malfoy barely spared her a glance. “Well, she can't possibly be worse than that old cow. Come along, Astoria, we’ll be late. Don’t bother with your hair, you look smashing, as always.”

“Draco—!” Hermione had to admit, she was impressed with the ferocity of Astoria’s glare. “Apologize to Mandy, if you please. I’m sure you didn’t mean to be so rude.” 

She suddenly had a memory of Narcissa Malfoy standing with that exact same spine-straight, pureblood posture, calling her “scum” in Madame Malkin’s in that exact same tone of voice.

To her surprise, Malfoy hesitated. Casting a brief glance heaven-ward, he turned back around and affixed what he no doubt thought was a look of repentance on his face. “My apologies,” he said, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I’m afraid I’m a right Erumpent when I haven’t been fed.” He extended a hand in her direction. “Forgive me?”

Hermione resisted the urge to hex his hand off and instead sank into what she’d started thinking of as Mandy’s “character.” 

“O-of course, Mr. Malfoy. No hard feelings whatsoever,” she tried to stammer a little. Maybe she could even squeeze out a blush. Two could play at this game. Hermione made sure to cast her eyes down as she shook his hand. It was warm. She didn’t know what she had expected; somehow the fact that he was just as human as she was made her hate him even more.

“You can call me Draco,” he said grandly, as if he were bestowing a great honor. Not waiting for a response, he turned back to Astoria, quirking an eyebrow at her as if to say, _Happy now?_ She smiled back at him gently. 

“See you tomorrow, Mandy. Don’t bother staying late.” With that, Astoria swept out of the office, Malfoy following at her heels like a puppy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hopefully, I will keep being able to update once a week. 
> 
> I'm a bit fuzzy on the timeline, but I'm imagining that the events of _Deathly Hallows_, minus the total Ministry coup, took place, but over a much longer span of time, like a few years, and they involved many more battles and skirmishes. And the Battle of Hogwarts happened, which is when Voldemort solidified power and Harry and the Order members were forced to retreat. I imagine the coup happening after that. So Hermione and Draco are in their mid-twenties. Which I know seems way too young for Draco and Astoria to have such powerful positions, but there's a reason for that which will be explained in the story. 
> 
> Finally, just because I don't want to have to put a long passage of Hermione reflecting on her looks in the story, I want to clarify that this Hermione does not look like Emma Watson. She's more like the canon description of Hermione. I kind of imagine her looking like Jenny Slate or Lorde or something (no shade to either of them, they're wonderful), i.e. her face has a lot of character and she can look quite pretty when she puts effort into it. But she's not amazingly gorgeous. Hopefully this clears up why she has occasional insecurities and why she's a bit starstruck by Astoria's looks.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: There's a very brief, joking mention of self-harm in the following chapter.

Hermione Apparated home with a crack that echoed for far too long in the drafty, dark corners of her flat. 

“_Incandescens_,” she murmured, watching her lamps flicker dimly to life, one by one. The armchair, the settee, the dining set with three chairs, the framed photographs arranged just-so on the mantel, the potted plant balanced on a stack of books, the rag rug spread over the creaky floorboards. It was a set piece, she thought. Not a home but the idea of one, like something one might see reflected back at them in the Mirror of Erised. There were no friends to come over for dinner. No family members to Floo-call about her first day of work. 

Though, she thought, there was one person who was waiting to hear how her day went. She tossed her shoulder bag on the floor and went to fetch it. 

Mandy’s diary was pale-pink and heart-shaped, with a pair of tiny angel’s wings that would flutter frantically in an effort to escape when anyone tried to open it. After a brief struggle, she managed to wrench the cover open, and flipped past the page where she had scrawled “PRIVATE - KEEP OUT - THAT MEANS YOU” in all capital letters. She began to write. 

_11 May 2005_

_Dear Diary,_

_My first day of work was today! It was amazing! My new boss, Astoria, is insanely gorgeous. I was worried she’d be a nightmare to work for, but she actually seems quite nice! And I’m excited to be working for the Information Department. It seems so glamorous and exciting..._

_And guess what? I ran into Draco Malfoy today!!!!! He’s as handsome as ever. Astoria introduced us, and he even asked me to call him Draco!!!! Reader, I could hardly breathe. I suppose that means he doesn’t remember me, which is probably for the best, if I’m going to be honest. Hopefully, I’ll be able to work with him, too, but I’m not sure how I’ll get to see him, seeing as he’s working all the way down in the Department of Mysteries. Though I wonder if him and Astoria are dating? They seem awfully close. Anyway, I’ll write more later. _

_Kisses,  
Mandy_

Hermione drew a little heart after her name, and smiled a little, imagining Lupin reading her report amongst the countless dour intelligence briefings no doubt cluttering up his desk at this very moment. She closed the diary and released it, watched it flutter away, bumping blindly against the walls like a moth.

_Now what?_ The evening seemed to stretch before her endlessly. What did normal people who were most definitely not spies or failed war heroes do when they weren’t working?

Hermione got up to fix herself a sandwich, not necessarily out of hunger, but merely from the feeling that she _should_. Normal people ate dinner after work. Though perhaps normal people didn’t eat their dinners standing up, right at the kitchen counter, because it felt impossible to sit at the dining table, facing two empty chairs. 

She could hear faint laughter trickling in from the flat next door. Strains of music floated in from the open window. It was a warm May night. Hermione sat down on the settee, fingers tapping an uneasy rhythm on the upholstered arm. Perhaps a normal person would now entertain themselves. Listen to music or something.

This was something Hermione hadn’t spent much time considering when she was preparing for her assignment. She’d planned every worst-case scenario, prepared for every compromising situation, rehearsed all of the Order’s procedures for extraction, for termination. 

But she hadn’t thought of what she would do in these moments, sitting alone in a dark room, when she didn’t have to pretend. When Mandy slipped off like a mask, but she couldn’t seem to find the Hermione that was supposed to be underneath. It was as if she had forgotten how to be Hermione, lost her somewhere along the way. While Horcrux-hunting, maybe. Or maybe while Death-Eater-_Crucio_-ing. She wasn’t quite sure.

Perhaps that was why Lupin had chosen her for this. He’d always been good at reading people. He’d seen how well she could play Hermione when she needed to, when Harry and Ron or other Order members were around, expecting her to be _brilliant_, and _brave_, and _responsible_, and _moral_. To pick up the load when it became too heavy. To be _Hermione_. But she’d only been pretending at that Hermione for a long time. And now she couldn’t even pretend anymore.

Hermione flicked her wand at the battered gramophone in the corner of the room. The unmistakable guitar chords of Spellbound’s 1996 hit, “Night So Long” spilled out from the trumpet. 

Merlin, she hated that song. Sixth year, after Ron had broken up with her, Lavender had charmed her smuggled-in wireless to play it on repeat, sobbing herself to sleep, night after night. Eventually, Hogwarts’ magical aura took its toll on the little radio, and every time the song played, it warped just that little bit more, until all you could get out of it were the witches of Spellbound crooning, “...night...slow...long...” over and over in warbly, cracked voices. 

One evening, coming back early from dinner, she caught Parvarti _Incendio_-ing it. She'd whirled around at the sound of footsteps behind her, no doubt worried it was Lavender, but her shoulders slumped in relief when she realized it was only Hermione. 

“You didn’t see anything,” Parvarti muttered before hurrying out of the room. Of course, when Lavender discovered the radio’s sparking remains that night, she’d blamed Hermione for its destruction. For some reason, perhaps out of guilt, perhaps out of a sense of solidarity with Parvarti, with whom she’d never before been close, Hermione hadn’t bothered to correct her.

She sighed and let her head thunk against the hard green back of the settee. “I say goodbye to love again,” the voices sang, on and on. It was Mandy’s favorite song. So now it was hers. 

Maybe she would even grow to like it one day.

That night she dreamt of Australia, its golden sand, and two people who seemed very happy to see her. In the dream, she couldn’t make out their faces, no matter how hard she tried.

The next day was easier, less surreal. Only three minutes of lying prostrate in fear this time, but an additional two minutes were occupied with trying to get rid of the crick in her neck from falling asleep on the settee. Shower. Dress. Tea. Toast. Prophet. Watch scream. Toilet flush. 

Hermione arrived at her desk at exactly twelve to nine. Perfectly late. There was a thick stack of parchment already waiting for her in her inbox, and more flying in from all directions. She groaned internally as she lowered herself into her deeply uncomfortable, extraordinarily stylish white leather chair.

Wars are fought with blood and won with paperwork, she remembered Lupin saying whenever Kingsley tried to circumvent the Order’s bureaucratic procedures. Hermione began sorting through the stack, separating the forms to be signed from the official memorandums and from the notes, letters, pleas, and threats which seemed to be piling up on her desk without end. 

Some of the missives had evidently been instructed by their authors to bypass the secretary’s desk, flying full speed over her head in their kamikaze missions. Most of them slammed into some kind of ward and dropped, half crumpled, on Hermione’s desk anyway. A few, however, seemed to have the authority to go over her head, literally, and slipped through Astoria’s mail slot, landing gracefully on a silver tray on her desk without a struggle. 

Hermione snuck a quick glance behind her—her boss wasn’t in her office. Odd, considering Astoria had a three-hour-long lunch meeting with Minister Yaxley himself blocked off on her calendar for today. Perhaps she was getting a cup of tea to calm her nerves, or rehearsing some sort of presentation or report in a conference room, Hermione thought. She was certainly at the Ministry; Astoria had left a rather long to-do list for the day on her desk. 

Hermione took the opportunity of being unobserved to pull something out of her shoulder bag. A picture frame of dull, antique gold. She arranged it carefully on her desk, taking a moment to look at the photograph inside. 

A witch and wizard with matching bouffant hair-dos were lounging on a grassy hill, a toddler in dungarees tucked between them. The wizard plucked a wildflower and gave it to the little girl, who promptly tried to eat it. The witch, looking up from her book, laughed, tossing her head back. 

Hermione angled the frame to catch the rays of the ceiling light, watching with a faint sense of regret as the figures in the frame disappeared in the glare, replaced with a reflection of Astoria’s currently-empty office. Anyone, seeing her staring at the frame, would think she was just a homesick country girl who missed her Mum and Dad. 

She felt a slight pang of guilt, as she always did, when she thought of Mandy’s father. Lupin had insisted he be Obliviated, even though he had agreed with Mandy’s decision to donate her body to the Order, sworn himself to secrecy. Eventually, if they, by some miracle, survived the war, took back the Ministry, it would have to undone. For him, it would be like his daughter dying twice. 

_Don’t worry, maybe we’ll all die and you won’t have to deal with it_, her not-Snape voice offered helpfully. _Or maybe, you’ll get fired from being a bloody terrible assistant who’s always late and never does work because she’s too busy nurturing her Gryffindor guilt-complex instead_. 

Hermione sighed, then pulled out a quill to start tackling the day’s work. The most annoying thing about Snape, she reflected, had been that he was always right, and he knew it, too. They used to have that in common. 

She was halfway through the third item on Astoria’s list (drafting a delicately phrased threat to assassinate the editor-in-chief of _Seeker Weekly_’s beloved Scottish terrier, Boswell, if the new Head of Magical Games and Sports was not featured on the next cover), when a pale, long-fingered, impeccably manicured hand thrust itself into her view, palm open expectantly. 

“Astoria’s schedule.” 

Malfoy had always had a way of turning what should have been requests into commands. He clipped the ends of his sentences when he spoke to those he considered beneath him, using not the long drawl he reserved for tormenting Muggleborns, but the simple, matter-of-fact tone one might use to cast a _Scourgify_, or request more pumpkin juice in Great Hall at dinner. 

Her irritation only compounded when Malfoy had the temerity to snap his fingers at her. “In a hurry,” he said. His head was buried behind the pages of the _Prophet_, which he held in his other hand, as if without a care in the world. 

“_HOGSMEADE TERROR ATTACK_,” the headlines blared, above a photo of Borgin and Burkes with its windows smashed in. “_Muggleborns Target Local Wizarding Businesses_.” 

Seeming to realize that a copy of Astoria’s schedule had not magically materialized in his outstretched hand, Malfoy looked up, folding his paper in half, forehead furrowed in slight confusion. 

“Ah,” he said, face clearing. “The new girl. Let me explain...” he glanced quickly at her nameplate. “...Mandy. What a lovely name, by the way.” 

Finding her stony faced, he pressed on. “I suppose Astoria forgot to mention this. Every week, _you_,” he gestured to her, speaking with exaggerated slowness, “are to give _me_,” he pointed helpfully to himself, “a copy of her schedule. And, as I’m sure you know, I’m a very busy man, so be a good girl and be quick about it.” 

Hermione looked back at him. She hadn’t had the time to really study him yesterday in Astoria’s office. Despite his slick attitude and the studied way he lounged against her desk, Malfoy looked more strained and gaunt than ever, even compared to sixth year, when he had been trying to assassinate the most powerful wizard in the world. 

Perhaps it was because she’d met him when he was still half a foot shorter than her and still tended to cry when he didn’t get his way, but she could tell by the way his jaw was clenched, and the way his lips tilted as if he were straining to hold his usual condescending smile, that something was very, very wrong in the world of Draco Malfoy. 

Hermione decided to make it a little worse. Lupin hadn’t had much intelligence on Malfoy or his position in Voldemort’s ranks, but she assumed that doing the opposite of whatever he wanted her to do would inevitably be good for the Order, somehow. At the very least, she had to get more information on the politics of the Ministry, the network of relationships that governed it. 

“Sorry, sir,” she said, trying to seem apologetic. “Astoria instructed me not to give the details of her schedule to anyone. Wish I could help.” She shrugged her shoulders, and pretended to go back to work, scribbling nonsense on the letter she had been drafting. At the same time, she slipped her left hand down to touch her wand, tucked in her robe pocket, and murmured a quick charm under her breath. 

“Well,” Malfoy said. “I have a solution that will work for both of us. _Accio_ Astoria’s schedule!”  
Hermione’s hand whipped out and snagged the parchment in midair, holding it back as it struggled to make its way to Malfoy. 

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, glaring back at him. Malfoy looked back at her, almost astonished, as if a tea cosy had just tried to hex him. “But Astoria made it very clear that—” Hermione gasped in pain. Malfoy had reached out and grabbed her wrist in a vise-like grip, _twisted_ until she was forced to let go. 

“Fuck,” Hermione whispered, snatching her injured hand back to cradle it with the other. 

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Malfoy said, voice all ice now. “Next week, let’s save us both some time and do this the easy way.” He rolled up the schedule, tucking it away in the inner pocket of his robes. Turning to leave, he suddenly froze, then looked back at her. 

“You seem familiar...” Malfoy muttered, almost to himself. He took a step closer, grey eyes piercing as he studied her. “I know you from somewhere. Don’t I know you?” he demanded. 

Hermione froze, heart hammering. _Did he suspect her? How could he know? Was it something she'd said?_ Her left hand gripped her wand tightly beneath the desk, shaking. 

There were people walking back and forth in the office, but Astoria’s office was somewhat isolated at one end of the hall. If she moved fast enough, she could probably Obliviate him. But if someone saw her? If she botched the spell? 

I’ll count to three, she decided. If she dithered, she'd be, at best, dead. At worst, captured. _One..._, she thought tensing her muscles, preparing to spring out of her chair. _Two..._

Just as she was about to whip her wand out, Malfoy burst into laughter. 

“Fucking hell--it's you! Brocklehurst!” He laughed again and shook his head ruefully. It was disturbing, the way he swung effortlessly from cruel to jovial. “I hope for Astoria’s sake you’ve learned to cast a Silencing charm since then.” 

Hermione expelled a shaky breath as she watched him stride away, still chuckling to himself. Merlin's pants, she’d almost tried to Obliviate Malfoy in front of the entire bloody Ministry. 

She hadn’t expected him to remember her. Though, on reflection, she supposed it would be difficult to forget a stuttering, weeping girl confessing her love in a decidedly public fashion, in Potions, no less. 

Even she remembered the incident quite well, though Mandy, rather understandably, had not offered up that particular memory in her Pensieve. 

Hermione recalled that she had almost dropped an entire vial of redcap saliva in her cauldron at the sound of someone screaming, “ILOVEYOUDRACOWILLYOUPLEASEGOTOTHEBALLWITHME?” behind her in the middle of class one day fourth year. 

She spun around and was surprised to find that the usually mousy Mandy Brocklehurst was the culprit who almost ruined her Blood-Replenishing potion. 

Perhaps Mandy would be in need of it, Hermione thought; she looked as if all the blood had drained from her body and was standing stiff, pale as wax, eyes wide in horror. The entire classroom was staring at her now, in shocked silence. Even Malfoy looked genuinely surprised for a moment, but he quickly regained his poise and smirked at her. 

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that. What did you say?” Malfoy was one of those annoying people who always had a cutting retort at the ready. All the Slytherins broke into predictable chortles, with Goyle slapping Malfoy on the back. Mandy had burst into tears and sprinted from the room as Snape furiously deducted points from Ravenclaw. 

Hermione overheard Parvarti and Lavender gossiping about it that night. According to Parvarti, who had heard it from Romilda Vane, who had heard it from Marietta Edgecombe, who had gotten her information directly from Mandy’s diary and from eavesdropping on her teary tête-à-têtes with Moaning Myrtle, which was really a gross invasion of privacy, Hermione thought, Mandy had been infatuated with Malfoy since first year, feelings that had escalated into near-obsession. 

Apparently, Mandy considered having Malfoy assigned as her Potions partner a go-ahead from Fate to ask him to the Yule Ball, though the Silencing charm she had cast to try to keep their conversation quiet had backfired and become more of a _Sonorus_. 

“Ugh, that _poor_ thing,” Lavender said, sounding positively gleeful. “If it were me, I’d just jump off Astronomy tower now and get it over with.” 

“Well, honestly, can you blame her?” Parvarti asked. “I mean, have you seen Malfoy in his Quidditch tights lately? Yum.” They both burst into giggles. 

Hermione had had enough. She stuck her head out between her bed-curtains. “Could you try to keep it down?” she asked tartly. “I’m trying to sleep.” 

Parvarti and Lavender, sitting cross-legged on their beds, rolled their eyes at one another. She was pretty sure Lavender had mouthed something like, “Yes, McGonagall,” at Parvarti, who giggled again, but they had both lowered their voices to hushed whispers after that. 

Hermione always felt a vague sense of pity for Mandy whenever she saw her afterwards, but she hadn’t spared another real thought for the girl until Lupin had brought her in that day, years later and a world away from schoolgirl gossip, to tell her about his insane new idea for infiltrating the Ministry. 

She wondered how this would affect her assignment. Hermione hadn’t counted on interacting with Malfoy, much less making him her enemy, on her second day to boot. 

Though perhaps this was a good thing. Malfoy, Hermione suspected, was one of those men who thought feelings were weaknesses. Now that he knew Astoria’s disagreeable new assistant was the same girl who had been madly in love with him at school, he might think he had the upper hand, and confident in his power over her, get careless. 

At the very least, Draco Malfoy could hardly suspect Mandy Brocklehurst of secretly being a spy for the Order, particularly if Hermione took care to act like Mandy might still have lingering affections for him. And with the way she suspected gossip at the Ministry worked, which, like any other bureaucratic workplace, took to humiliating rumors like fire to tinder, Mandy would be written off as a lovesick, dowdy little secretary to be tittered about and pitied. And those who attracted pity, she knew, never attracted suspicion. That, after all, had been the lesson Peter Pettigrew had taught them all so very well. 

Yes, this would be a good thing, Hermione decided. She could use this opportunity, show Lupin she could do so much more for the Order than sending in reports about petty interdepartmental squabbles and gossip. She could do her part, even if she wasn't out there killing Death Eaters and rescuing Muggles and Muggleborns. Even if she were hiding. Even if she were weak. She could do this, at least. 

And she ignored the whisper of doubt that suggested getting entangled in any way with Malfoy might be a very, very bad idea indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, as always! Sorry that basically nothing happens this chapter--I promise next chapter will be more exciting and plotty. The song "Night So Long," is actually the property of HAIM, whose members are quite witchy indeed.


	4. Four

Astoria finally sailed into the office three minutes to noon, impeccably dressed, as always, in a set of cream colored robes, with rows of tiny, pearl-like buttons running up to her throat and along her wrists, looking like a witch who had all the time in the world.

Hermione, who had been attempting to fill out some paperwork while sneaking nervous glances at the clock, almost leapt out of her chair before she remembered herself. But she couldn’t help the accusatory half-whisper, half-hiss that slipped out. 

“Where on earth have you been? The Minister will be here any minute!”

Astoria’s blue gaze swiveled in her direction. “Excuses are your job, not mine,” she said coolly, sweeping past Hermione in a cloud of perfume. 

Hermione felt inexplicably hurt at the brush-off, then irritated at herself for feeling hurt at all. Why should she care if Astoria got in trouble, or if she snapped at her? None of this was real.

Hermione had been concerned about this very thing that seemed to be happening. She was self-aware enough to know that she was a bit of a swot—_Only a bit?_ (Not-Snape was out in full force today)—painfully conscientious and eager to please. 

What if she forgot herself? Started caring about her job, her coworkers, her false life?

When she’d brought her concerns to Lupin, however, he’d only replied with a question of his own. 

“Hermione, was Severus Snape a Dark wizard?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, confused. “He worked for the Light. He was on our side.”

“You’re wrong,” Lupin said. “Snape was a Dark wizard, through and through. One of the most brilliant wizards of our age, to be sure, but he was cruel and petty, sadistic and unforgiving to the bone. There wasn’t a good and kind Severus hiding beneath that black cloak of his, you know.” He gave her a crooked grin. “Trust me, I tried to find him.”

Hermione looked at him blankly. 

He sighed and continued. “You don’t fool the Dark Lord for decades simply by being good at Occlumency. On some level, Snape really was all those things he pretended to be. That’s what made him such a good spy. Loving Lily didn’t redeem him. It just motivated him. The difference between Snape and someone like Rowle is that Snape worked for us. He came when he was called. He did what he was ordered to do. Do you understand?”

“So you’re saying...it’s all right if I do start to care. As long as I remember where my loyalties lay,” Hermione said, slowly. 

“Not just all right, Hermione. I expect you to start caring. That’s why I thought you would be best for this role. You and I, we haven’t been given the gift of seeing the world in black and white,” he’d said. “The Order doesn’t need more fanatics.”

Hermione thought of Molly Weasley, who had been returning from missions splattered in more and more blood ever since Arthur had gone missing. Ron, who had started keeping a running tally, along with his brothers, of who could turn the most “Voldies” into “Moldies.”

Never-mind that, as Hermione acidly pointed out one night when she could stand the boastful machismo no longer, _Confrigo_-ing the elderly Annis Macnair in her bath slippers should hardly count as killing a Death Eater. 

Merlin, now that had been a row. She and Ron had been at it for hours until Fleur had marched in and _Petrificus Totalus_-ed the both of them.

“Just remember,” Lupin had said. “It doesn’t matter how you feel. It only matters what you do.”

“It only matters what you do,” Hermione whispered to herself. If only she had something _to_ do, but Lupin had been infuriatingly silent. All she’d gotten in the way of instructions were two words burnt into her toast that morning—“PLAY NICE.” And she was starting to curse her own stroke of brilliance for thinking to place a Protean charm on her toaster. 

“Moody’s gone, and I reckon he was just about the only wizard paranoid enough to check a toaster for enchantments,” she’d said, with a touch of pride after Lupin had eagerly seized upon her idea. But the smell of burnt toast every morning was wearing away at Hermione’s already thin reserves of sanity. 

Her stomach growled as she reached for yet another letter which had flown into her inbox. In doing so, she caught a glimpse of Astoria’s reflection in the picture-frame on her desk. 

She was sitting stock-still, which was rather unusual. Astoria was typically a flurry of motion, dictating to her Spry-Scribe quill, reading reports, stirring endless cups of tea. But now, she was motionless, staring down at her hands folded on the desktop. 

_Play nice_, Hermione reminded herself. She leaned toward the cherub, who obligingly held out the trumpet it was carrying, and spoke. “Astoria, shall I fetch some tea for you and the Minister? Or coffee, maybe?” 

She kept her eyes on the frame, where Astoria visibly flinched, then shook herself and began shuffling through a stack of parchment. 

“No, thank you,” the cherub replied in Astoria’s voice. “The Minister and I are not to be disturbed during our meeting. Go ahead and take a long lunch, there’s scarcely anything to do today.” 

While Hermione could hardly agree, judging by her long to-do list of which she’d only finished less than a third, she knew a dismissal when she heard one. At least it seemed like Astoria had snapped out of whatever strange mood she’d been in. 

Hermione was halfway down the hall, jingling the coins in her pocket and deciding whether to treat herself to a slice of cake from the Ministry cafeteria, when a hush fell around her. She looked up. 

Yaxley had just entered the Information department, accompanied by the sort of frenzied, nervous energy that always surrounded famous and powerful men wherever they went. She’d seen it happen around Harry often enough. 

His dark robes swirled dramatically as he nodded and waved through the flurries of “Morning, Minister!” and “Minister, about that policy draft...” Hermione felt a distinct chill as he brushed past her, their eyes meeting for a moment. Yaxley’s brutish, pockmarked face was sporting an incongruously wide, toothy smile. 

Hermione didn’t quite know why, but she turned her head slightly, watching him as he made his way to Astoria’s office. He knocked on the glass, and Astoria, looking tense, rose to greet him. Yaxley let himself in and, with a flick of his wand, turned the clear walls of her office opaque and cloudy. 

Hermione wondered what they could be talking about in there that required such privacy. 

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted something that looked suspiciously like the paper crane that had dive-bombed her on her first day. Moving quickly, she ducked into the nearest lift, before it could attack her again, all thoughts of Yaxley evaporated, for the moment.

Hermione poked at the crumbly remains of her lemon drizzle cake with a sigh. Of course a Voldemort-controlled Ministry would produce bakes that were absolute rubbish. She glanced at her watch. The hag’s tongue was still pointed at “TOO EARLY.”

Hermione yawned and tilted her head up to savor the rays of the enchanted sunlight that filled the tearoom. Astoria’s meeting with Yaxley was scheduled to run till three o’clock. The Ministry’s lunch rush had come and gone, and the room was filled with the dull hum of weather spells, and the crinkle of a single wizard turning the pages of his newspaper every so often. 

She’d given up on reading the novel she had brought with her, by Mandy's favorite author. Absolute tripe, she thought. “_Beastly Love_,” printed in lurid red type on the cover, was accompanied by the rather distressing subtitle, “_A bookish Veela is forced to take a passionate werewolf as her mate. Will sparks fly?_”

Hermione had just, very reluctantly, decided to give _Beastly Love_ another chance when someone walked into the tearoom and sat down at the chair directly behind hers, facing the other direction.

“Nice time of year, isn’t it. In Wimbourne, especially." Hermione froze, dropping her book. "No, I don’t suggest you turn around unless you want to be hexed six ways to heaven.” His voice was quiet and casual, as if they were simply two colleagues making small talk about the weather. She supposed they were, in a way. 

So he’d figured it out. Well, it had been a silly trick to play. She’d done it out of spite more than any strategic design. 

Hermione leaned back a little. Sitting like this, their backs of their heads were almost touching. It was an odd feeling, surprisingly intimate. She wondered how Mandy would react in this situation.

“Wh-What do you want? Please, don’t hurt him,” Hermione whisper-pleaded. 

“How touching. I wouldn’t dream of hurting dear old doddering dad,” Malfoy replied. “Unless, of course, you continue to be uncooperative, in which case the Commission for Cultural Preservation will be paying him a visit, and discovering some very disturbing Muggle contraband in his garden shed, indeed.”

Hermione frowned. She had underestimated the weakness Mandy’s father posed, as well as Malfoy’s skill in getting dirt on people. How had he found the information about her father so quickly? She’d have to get word to Lupin to put the man under watch, if not invent an excuse for him to go into hiding. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Hermione said, trying to sound scared. “Please, I only Confunded it, because I was worried you were going to do something to Astoria. She doesn't deserve to be fooled around with.” She injected a little more firmness into her last line--it wouldn't do to seem totally spineless or Malfoy would happily trample all over her. 

“Shall I fool around with you instead?” 

Hermione still couldn’t make herself blush on cue, so she settled for stammering awkwardly instead. This would be almost too easy. Malfoy had clearly deluded himself into thinking he was some sort of rakish villain, like the one in _Beastly Love_, who swanned about, alternately threatening and charming people into doing what he wanted. (So, she admitted to herself, the book wasn't that bad, in fact she had actually been looking forward to reading the next chapter before she'd been so rudely interrupted.)

At the lack of a coherent response from her, Malfoy sighed and let out a long breath. 

“Look,” he said, his tone shifting to something that Hermione would have called sincere if it hadn’t come from him, “You seem like a decent assistant. I don’t want to get rid of you unless I have to. Merlin knows Marcheline would’ve sold Astoria out for a smile and a pinch on the bum.”

Hermione wondered how, exactly, Malfoy knew that. 

“I’m not trying to hurt her,” he continued. “I’m just—” He broke off sharply. “Why are you here?” She felt him turn around.

“Excuse me?” Ignoring his earlier threat, she turned around as well. His face was much closer to hers than she had been expecting. 

“I mean, why are you here? Why aren’t you at your desk, doing secretarial...things?” Malfoy flapped his hand, as if to encompass all the mysterious “things’ Ministry peons like her were forced to do by people like him.

“Astoria told me to take a long lunch. She seemed like she had a lot to talk about with Yax—”

Malfoy was up and running, robes flying behind him. 

“Fuck it all,” Hermione muttered to herself as she rushed to follow after him, ignoring the odd looks they were getting as Malfoy raced towards the lifts, with her sprinting after him. This was definitely the opposite of Lupin’s whole “Dependable. Unimportant. Unnoticed,” thing. But she had to know what had set Malfoy off. 

Malfoy shoved a flustered looking witch out of a lift and jumped in. With a silent apology, Hermione shoved her aside again so she could wedge herself in between the closing doors. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” 

Malfoy ignored her, jabbing the button for level three repeatedly. The lift lurched violently upwards, forcing them to lunge for the ropes hanging down from the ceiling. Hermione missed hers and careened violently into Malfoy’s side.

“Watch it,” he snapped, shoving her away. Hermione grunted in pain as she careened again, slamming into the wall this time. 

“It’s your own bloody fault,” Hermione cried, incensed. “Don’t you know that these lifts are sensitive? You shouldn’t have jabbed the buttons so hard!”

Malfoy's eyes never left the golden arrow at the top of the doors, tracking their ascent. “No, I didn’t know, and no, I don’t care. Kindly shut up, I'm trying to think.” Hermione noticed with alarm that he had removed his wand from his holster and was flexing his fingers around it. 

“Just tell me what you’re going to—” The lift doors slid open with a ding. Malfoy almost sprung forward before Hermione hissed, “Level four! This is level four!” He stilled again, but otherwise refused to acknowledge her existence. 

She opened her mouth, about to threaten to pull the emergency stop lever, when a diminutive wizard with a velvet cap wandered into the lift. Hermione reluctantly swallowed her words.

“Oh! Good afternoon, Mr. Malfoy,” the man said.

“Afternoon, Agrawal,” Malfoy replied stiffly.

“Going up?”

“Yes.”

“Very good.” He nodded politely in Hermione’s direction, and hummed to himself as the lift continued its journey upwards. 

It felt like an eternity passed before it dinged again. Hermione noted with some amusement that Malfoy seemed to double check the level they were on before getting out. This time, he walked calmly but briskly toward the Department of Information, though his strides were long enough that Hermione had to scurry to keep up with him.

“Don’t,” she tried again as the opaque walls of Astoria’s office neared. She felt like she should at least make a show of stopping him as Astoria's assistant, though really she was dying to know what was happening. 

“Don’t just barge in, it’s an important meeting. Let me talk to her, pretend something needs her attention...”

Malfoy banged on the glass door with his fist. “Astoria, come out,” he demanded. “We need to talk.” There was no response. 

Malfoy raised his wand, about to cast some sort of unlocking spell, no doubt, but before he had the chance, the walls of the office turned clear again, the door swinging open with a click. 

Yaxley was sitting in the blue armchair in the corner, holding a cup of tea, while Astoria sat behind her desk, a quill and a piece of parchment before her, looking as put together as usual. Except, Hermione noticed, a single pearl button on the neck of her robes had come undone.

“Malfoy!” Yaxley rose, setting his cup and saucer down on a side table. “This is no way to speak to a lady.” His black eyes seemed to sparkle. 

Malfoy seemed at a loss for words for a moment, then he cleared his throat. “Apologies, Ms. Greengrass,” he said. “The Minister is right, I’ve been terribly rude.” He didn’t glance at Astoria once while he spoke, his gaze wholly focused on Yaxley’s face. “I should hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

“Not at all, dear boy,” Yaxley replied. “We were just wrapping things up. Astoria,” he said, turning to her. “This time next week, again? I find our working lunches so productive.”

Astoria nodded her assent, expressionless.

“Excellent. And, my office next time. Fewer interruptions.” Yaxley made to leave, pausing briefly when he was shoulder to shoulder with Malfoy. “By the way, I haven’t had any updates on your little project lately. Still on track for Samhain?”

“Yes, sir,” Malfoy replied. 

“Excellent,” Yaxley said. “I have high hopes for you, my boy. I’m sure Lucius is looking down on you proudly.” He laughed. “Or, looking up, as the case may be.”

“Surely,” Malfoy agreed pleasantly.

“Ah—Now who might we have here?” Hermione froze. She had tried to make herself as small and unobtrusive as possible, but Yaxley had clearly noticed her anyway.

“Just my new assistant,” Astoria spoke for the first time, her voice light. “Minister, I think you mentioned you wanted to squeeze in a quick chat with Parkinson before the DMLE briefing?”

Yaxley ignored her, his eyes trailing down Mandy’s face, and further. “What’s a little country mouse like you doing in the big, bad Ministry?” he asked, tapping her gently on the nose. 

Hermione couldn’t hold back her flinch. Astoria had come around the desk now, and put a hand on Yaxley’s shoulder.

“Minister,” she said with a smile, “As much as I’d like for you to stay and chat, you know Dolohov would have my hide if I made you so much as a minute late.”

“Well,” Yaxley said, with another glance at Hermione, “We can’t have that now can we?” He turned to Astoria again. “Always a pleasure, my dear.” With a wink, he lifted Astoria’s hand from his shoulder and gave it a kiss, before nodding at Malfoy and making his exit.

When they were sure that Yaxley was out of earshot, the three of them let out a collective sigh. Hermione closed her eyes briefly. She felt rather like she had first year, when she’d narrowly escaped the Devil’s Snare. When Yaxley looked at her, she had felt that same constricting feeling, like something was wrapped around her rib cage, pulling her downward, into the dark. 

When she opened them again, she realized that Astoria was glaring blue daggers at Malfoy. 

“What. Were. You. Thinking.” Astoria’s voice was dangerously calm.

Hermione decided to intervene before Malfoy could sell her out and spin the story in his favor.

“I’m so sorry, Astoria. I didn’t want to give him your schedule but—” Astoria held up a hand, cutting her off. 

“It’s all right, Mandy,” Astoria said, gentling her voice. “I know it’s not _your_ fault.” She arched a single eyebrow at Malfoy. “Cancel my next meeting. Draco and I have something to discuss.”

Hermione slipped out of the office, watching as the glass walls turned cloudy again. She sat down at her desk and twirled her quill in her fingers slowly, thinking. 

So Lucius Malfoy was dead. The Order hadn’t been sure what happened to him, if he was hiding or working for the Dark Lord abroad or in exile. What had happened?

And what was the Samhain project Malfoy was working on? Was that connected to why he’d been made head of the Department of Mysteries? 

And finally, what was the relationship between Yaxley, Astoria, and Malfoy? She thought of that unbuttoned button again, the way Malfoy had turned white when she let slip that Astoria was meeting with Yaxley. 

There was a lot she needed to write in her diary tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I've been sick for the past two weeks. I think I'll be shifting to an update every other week, but I'll try to be as consistent as I can. Thank you for reading as always, and let me know what you think is happening in the comments :)


	5. Five

The rest of her week passed with agonizing normalcy. Hermione had begun to settle into the routine of your average pencil-pushing Voldemort supporter. The entirety of Wednesday afternoon was spent refiling boxes of dossiers that her predecessor had inexplicably decided to alphabetize according to middle name. Thursday, of course, was consumed with executing the Ladies’ Tittle Tattle. Catering had somehow misread her order and sent a platter of onion sandwiches, which she’d had to hastily transfigure into prawn ones. Though she had felt a twinge of dark joy at the way Umbridge had delicately wrinkled her nose after taking a bite. One could never really Transfigure away the smell or taste of an onion. Hermione had often thought that should be the sixth Principal Exception to Gamp’s Law.

Hermione looked down at Astoria’s calendar. She’d blocked out the time between noon and three o’clock, and written “Meeting with Yaxley / Yaxley’s office.” In the space where she usually put a note to jog her, and therefore Astoria’s, memory of what the meeting was supposed to be about, she’d simply scrawled a question mark. 

A question mark pretty much described how she felt about everything in her life as Mandy so far. It had been a week since she’d started, and she was still no closer to solving any of the questions the Order wanted answered. She’d gotten dribs and drabs of information, yes, gathered from overheard conversations and from searching through rubbish bins for scraps of parchment that had escaped _Incendio_, but the Department of Information was too concerned with misinformation for anything too classified to cross Astoria’s desk. 

Hermione sighed, running her fingers through the cropped strands of her smooth, silky hair. She didn’t think she would ever get used to touching her hair and not finding it a tangled bird’s nest. 

It was ten to noon. Astoria would have to get a move on if she didn’t want to keep Yaxley waiting. Hermione moved to speak into the cherub’s trumpet when she heard the door behind her open.

“I know, I know, I’ve got my one-on-one with Yaxley,” Astoria said. “Have you seen that WWN proposal? Patil promised she’d have it in by this morning, but—Oh, bless you Mandy, what would I do without your powers of organization.” 

The strange mood that had struck Astoria the last time she was supposed to meet Yaxley seemed to have vanished. She had an air of ease about her, one that belied the severe chignon which held back her usually loose hair, and the high-necked, hunter-green robes edged with old-fashioned, pointed lace. Hermione was starting to understand how Astoria chose her clothing like a soldier might choose armor. Today, she looked like how Hermione imagined McGonagall might have as a young witch, all severe propriety.

“If you don’t mind terribly, would you mind taking lunch at your desk today?” Astoria bit her lip. “It’s just...Pansy thinks someone’s been rummaging around in her office, and, well, it’s probably nothing, but I’d feel much better if one of us was here during lunchtimes from now on. We’ll take turns, of course,” she hurried.

“Not at all,” Hermione said. “I’ve been meaning to catch up on some reading anyway, so some peace and quiet sounds just the ticket.” 

Astoria nodded. “Thanks, Mandy. See you in a bit. Oh, and if Draco stops by and tries to badger you into scheduling him a meeting with me, tell him the answer is still ‘no’. In the off chance that he tries to threaten you again, _which he shouldn’t_,” Astoria added in a rather terrifying _sotto voce_, “just ignore him. Draco’s all bark and no bite, really.” 

Hermione watched as Astoria clicked away on her heels, her back ramrod straight, as if she were walking down a runway. _Or down the plank_. The thought ghosted through her from out of nowhere, and she shook her head to clear it.

She needed to focus. There was a real problem here—Hermione hadn’t stepped foot in Pansy Parkinson’s office, she was sure of it. She frowned, fiddling anxiously with her quill. There were five possible explanations, then.

One, Parkinson was barking mad. Definitely true, though that didn’t mean she was necessarily wrong about someone snooping around. 

Two, Parkinson was lying, for some unknown reason. A strange explanation, and unlikely. 

Three, Hermione had looked around in Parkinson’s office and forgotten all about it. Practically impossible, but allowances had to be made for her own fallibility. 

Four, someone had been in there for some innocent reason. This was the most likely explanation. 

But Hermione couldn’t dismiss the nagging feeling that the answer was really the fifth possibility, the one she was dreading. 

There was another spy. One who was much worse at it than her, to be found out by Pansy. Or just desperate. 

She entertained the hopeful notion that it was another Order spy for a moment, but dismissed it quickly. Lupin might be cautious, but he was shrewd. He’d understand that the dangers of sending in _two_ people to infiltrate the Ministry without any knowledge of one another’s existence vastly outweighed the possible benefits.

Most likely it was simply the typical story of Ministry apparatchiks jockeying for promotions. Pansy had made an enemy of some bureaucrat or another, or another department wanted a bigger budget for the next fiscal year, and thought they’d engage in a spot of sabotage. 

And Astoria certainly had reason to be watchful. Hermione had been given to understand, even in her relatively short stint at the Ministry, that the newly-formed Department of Information was widely known to be Yaxley’s personal pet project. Some of the other, older department heads were none too happy that a young, pretty witch like Astoria had captured the political spotlight. 

Though, she thought, thinking of Yaxley predatory gaze, the greedy smile that stretched across his thin lips as he kissed Astoria’s hand, the Minister’s particular forms of attention were not really to be envied. 

Hermione was interrupted from her thoughts by a series of loud thumps. She looked up, and for a moment she couldn’t quite process what she was seeing. 

It certainly _looked_ as if the head of the Department of Mysteries had relocated the contents of an entire study to the small, cramped area in front of her desk. 

A thick Persian rug had materialized, covering the worn floorboards, followed by an enormous mahogany desk and tufted leather chair. As she watched, an antique globe, a green shaded lamp, a foe glass, and a bronze paperweight that looked suspiciously like a house elf skull appeared with a series of _pops_ and thumped heavily down on the surface of the desk. 

Malfoy, who had been standing to the side, sighed in apparent satisfaction, then vaulted over the desk so he could squeeze into his chair.

“Tea would be splendid,” he remarked to no one in particular. “Four sugars, splash of milk. Wouldn’t say no to a biscuit, either. One of those jammy ones.” He made a little circle in the air with his finger. 

When she didn’t respond, he turned to look at her, frowning. Hermione made an effort to re-hinge her jaw, which had been gaping open for the last few minutes rather unattractively. 

_Four sugars? Did the man have any teeth left, or was it all just swiss cheese?_ She could just imagine her dad taking off his spectacles, as he always did before launching into his speech about prevention being better than the cure —she cut herself off. _None of that now. _

Malfoy was staring at her expectantly. Waiting for her to scurry off and fetch his tea, she supposed. 

There were a million things Hermione wanted to say. Instead, she forced herself to reply politely. “I’m sorry, I can’t...You’re blocking the only way out.” She gestured to his desk, which spanned almost the entire length of the corridor. One would have to leap over it, as Malfoy had done, or, Merlin forbid, crawl underneath it to get out. 

Malfoy frowned, looking irritated, as if the entire situation were her fault. Then he tipped his head back, calling out, “Pritch-aard!” in the tone of voice one might use to summon a lap dog. 

When a half second elapsed with no response, he continued: “PritchardPritchardPritchardPritchardPritch—”

A rumpled looking young wizard rushed down the hall, almost tripping over his own feet before righting himself. “Here, Mr. Malfoy,” he gasped, skidding to a stop in front of the desk. “I just got your note about the...relocation...” he trailed off, eyes rapidly taking in his surroundings from behind a pair of thick, horn-rimmed glasses.

“Yes, well I’d have liked some tea, five minutes ago,” Malfoy said. He was frowning down at three thick tomes spread out across his desk.

Hermione had to admire how this Pritchard didn’t let even the slightest expression of annoyance cross his face. “Right away, sir,” Pritchard said cheerily, spinning on his heel and sprinting back down the hallway he had just sprinted up.

She glanced back at Malfoy, who was now flipping through one of his books and muttering to himself. He’d just completely made himself at home, hadn’t he. 

Hermione, for one, felt much too exhausted to confront him. It was just past noon, and she already had a throbbing headache from having to give up her precious coffee as Mandy, the coffee-hater. 

Meanwhile, Yaxley was three floors up there probably sliming all over her kind and supportive boss, who also happened to be Voldemort-supporter and pureblood supremacist, she desperately had to pee, and Draco sodding Malfoy, schoolyard bully, cowardly ferret, and notorious Death Eater, was blocking the only path to the loo. 

To make matters worse, Hermione was pretty sure she had forgotten to pack her lunch, and she’d promised Astoria to stand guard until she’d returned, which wouldn’t be until three at the earliest, at which point the Ministry cafeteria would have closed for the day. 

She dropped her head on the desk, feeling her blood sugar plummet.

There was some sort of flurry of activity coming from Malfoy’s direction, but Hermione had absolutely no desire at all to investigate. Let him do what he pleased, she thought blurrily. Malfoy always got his way, anyway. At least this way she could squeeze in a quick nap before her afternoon of evil deeds, note-taking, and tea-fetching. 

Hermione had only just shut her eyes when someone started repeating her name.

“...Brocklehurst? Miss Brocklehurst?”

“WHAT!” she roared, shooting upright from her desk. 

Pritchard was staring at her, looking rather cowed. Even Malfoy had shot her a quick, perturbed glance before going back to his work.

That had been rather too Granger-ish, she thought with regret. “Erm...I mean,” she coughed to clear her throat. “What...what was that?” 

“I was just wondering if you...wanted a cup of tea as well, Miss Brocklehurst,” Pritchard said. He was gripping the handle of a large silver teapot in one hand, a cloth napkin draped over his arm. 

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Hermione said. “Two sugars and a splash of milk, please.”

A delicate, almost translucent teacup and saucer sailed her way, landing with a clink on her desk. Pritchard plucked two pieces of shortbread with glistening jam centers out of a tin and set them on a plate in front of Malfoy. 

“Biscuit for you as well?” Hermione’s stomach growled loudly at his words. 

Pritchard grinned and placed another two biscuits on a plate. This would probably be the only sustenance she’d get for the day, so she swallowed her pride and tried to summon some of her alleged Gryffindor courage. 

“Could I get a few of those ginger newts as well? And...perhaps...the chocolate ones...” 

She trailed off, watching as Pritchard piled her plate high with a mountain of assorted biscuits, sending it soaring her way with a wink. 

Hermione realized with a sudden flush that Pritchard, awkward gangliness notwithstanding, possessed an extraordinarily charming smile. 

Six biscuits and two lashings of tea later, Hermione finally felt her blood sugar rise to levels adequate for Dealing With Malfoy. 

“Excuse me....Mr. Malfoy.”

Malfoy didn’t look up from his parchment but held up one finger, eyes skimming back and forth across the scroll. Then he stamped it with an inky black skull and sent it flying onto a teetering mountain of parchment on Pritchard’s tiny desk. In Voldemort’s new world, it was anyone’s guess whether the skull was a mark or approval or an order for its author to be killed—both seemed equally probable. 

“Mr. Malfoy was my father. Please, call me Draco. I insist.” Malfoy’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Erm, right. Sorry about that. Draco. This is Astoria’s office...as you can see. If you’d like to make an appointment, I’m happy to try to schedule one for you, but just to warn you, she’s been very busy lately and...”

Behind Malfoy, Pritchard was shaking his head furiously at her. 

“I’ll stop you right there. I’m well aware of Astoria’s so-called busy schedule. Now that we’re office mates, well, I’m sure we’ll have to run into one another from time to time.”

Hermione thought frantically. With Malfoy here, literally right next to her, any opportunities she might have to slip into Astoria’s office unsupervised, or eavesdrop on any meetings, would disappear. 

“Look, Draco,” she tried again. “You know Astoria won’t respond well to this. Why don’t you go back to your office, and I’ll try to talk to her about it? Maybe I can slip in a meeting _mthmvm pthpthpth_—” Her tongue was suddenly a thick piece of flesh, alien in her mouth, like she’d just had the mother of all fillings.

“Much better. Now let’s have a little peace and quiet, shall we?” 

Hermione stared down at her to-do list, rage trembling within her. Hermione would never stand for this treatment. Hermione would fling him across the room, or hang him upside down by his ankles and watch him snivel.

But she was Mandy Brocklehurst now. Mandy was terrible at Charms. And at standing up for herself. Hermione took a deep, slow, breath. _Remember Peter Pettigrew_, not-Snape whispered.

Before she could think of a new tactic to get rid of Malfoy, one that ideally did not involve speaking, Astoria’s doors burst open with a bang, and a man, clad in the cobalt and grey uniforms of the Peace Keepers, bolted in, looking white as a sheet. 

“There you are,” he gasped. “Sir, she’s awake.” 

Malfoy was suddenly upright in a single swift movement. “How long?” 

“Almost an hour,” the man said, leaning over and resting his hands on his knees. 

“And why the fuck am I just hearing about this now?” Malfoy’s voice was deceptively cool, but he was moving rapidly, unlocking a small drawer in his desk with a key and pulling out a surprisingly large bag out of it with a grunt. 

_Undetectable Extension Charm_, Hermione caught herself thinking, almost approvingly, before she caught herself.

The bag resembled one of the ones the Order had used for field medicine, but without the crossed wand and bone. 

The Peace Keeper _hurked_ and spewed out a stream of disturbingly magenta-tinted vomit. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I had guard duty, and I couldn’t get away. Thank Merlin I still keep some Puking Past—” he gagged and vomited again. “--Pastilles around. Can’t get those for love nor Galleons these days. But I lost the purple end somehow on the way here.”

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, closing his eyes. Hermione felt an eerie sense of deja vu, before she realized he had somehow copied the exact way Professor Snape used to pinch the bridge of his nose when he felt particularly embattled, usually before raging at a cowering Neville Longbottom. Strange to think a dead man could live on in such a way.

Rummaging through the medibag, Malfoy pulled out a vial of brown liquid and tossed it at the Peacekeeper. “Drink this; we have no time to lose. Lestrange is probably on his way, if he’s not there already. Pritchard, you know what to do. I’ll probably only need half an hour, but let’s say an hour to be safe.”

“It’s all taken care of, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Right, Jorkins, off we go. Try to look sharp.”

Jorkins tossed back the contents of the vial, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you, sir. Whew. Feeling brighter than a bunny’s tail now. That potion of yours did wonders.”

“How I appreciate your regionalisms, Jorkins. Oh right, and bring the girl,” Malfoy gestured at Hermione with one hand. “We’ll need her.”

Before Hermione could protest, Jorkins had grabbed her by the elbow and was dragging her out of the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for disappearing for so long. I have the next chapter written already as a buffer and will try to update regularly again. As always, I appreciate your feedback, criticisms, screams of outrage, etc.


	6. Six

To build the newly founded Department of Peace, an unprecedented eleventh level had been built beneath the Wizengamot Chambers at the Ministry. Hermione hadn’t been able to avoid the rumors that swirled among her fellow peons in the tearoom and supply closets — she’d heard its walls were stainless steel, all the better to _Scourgify_ the blood that regularly bathed its walls, that inhuman screams filled the air at all hours. 

No one claimed to have actually seen these bloody walls, of course, though someone always seemed to know someone that had a high enough security clearance to venture down into its depths on a regular basis. 

But as the lift doors slid open with a quiet chime, Hermione was greeted with soft strains of classical music. The floor and walls seemed to be carved out of a single block of white marble, veined with some shimmering gold mineral.

“Most of the officers are in the weekly all-hands meeting at Azkaban” Jorkins muttered. “Reckon I outrank everyone who’s been left here.”

“Right. Just keep moving, act like you’re taking me somewhere,” Malfoy said. Jorkins nodded and straightened his shoulders, striding ahead, Malfoy following behind, giving Hermione a little knock in the shin with his boot. “Keep up,” he hissed.

They followed Jorkins through what seemed to be a labyrinth of twisting halls and security-locked doors. Their ruse seemed to work long enough for those who crossed their paths to decide they didn’t want to get involved in whatever was happening—a few of the Peace Keepers gave them strange looks, but no one seemed to have the courage, or authority, to stop them. 

Finally, they came to a long, brightly lit hallway, lined with rows of thick steel doors, the kind she remembered protecting some of the more mundane vaults in Gringotts. A shudder of dread rippled down Hermione’s back when she saw that none of them had visible knobs or handles. 

Though none of the doors were marked, Jorkins took them without hesitation to one of them, and touched the tip of his wand to it. Soundlessly, the door swung open, as if it were as light as a feather, beckoning them to the darkened room beyond.

“You should get back,” Malfoy said. “I’ll handle this from here. Remember to get a medical note.”

Jorkins saluted Malfoy with his wand, stepping aside to let them pass through. 

Malfoy gestured toward her gallantly.

“Witches first.” 

Hermione took a deep breath. _Do not glare at Malfoy, do not glare at Malfoy_ , she reminded herself. Whatever was going on behind that door, it would be invaluable knowledge for the Order. There was no turning back now. She stepped through the doorway, and felt Malfoy follow behind her, swinging the door shut behind them.

A massive column of ice stretched from floor to ceiling in the center of the room, which was otherwise small, dark, and appointed with an indifferent, careless luxury. The column gave off a pulsing blue glow which cast long shadows on the floor, and frosty tendrils of vapor seemed to exhale from it, as if it were breathing. Two plush, tufted leather armchairs faced it at an angle, with a crystal decanter set on a table between them. Hermione shivered, but not from the cold. She could just make out the shadow of something large and dark, frozen deep within the ice.

Malfoy grabbed two fur-lined cloaks from a coat rack, and flung one at her.

“Listen very carefully and do exactly as I say. There’s someone I need to get some information from. And I’d prefer not to have to _Crucio_ it out of them.” His patrician nose crinkled ever so slightly, as if in distaste. “I have reason to believe they will be willing to give the information to you if I..._alter_ their mental state sufficiently.”

Hermione opened her mouth to express her refusal in the most vehement way possible, but all that came out was, “Mthmmmppp—”

“Oh, right. _Finite Incantatum_ .” 

“--No,” she said, “No, no—”

“You will do it, or I will _Imperio_ you and you will do it,” Malfoy continued mildly, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Then, I’ll have to _Obliviate_ you as well, and I’m rather a poor hand at that. Might take out a whole year or so without meaning to.”

Hermione let her hand drift casually down to her wand. She’d always been faster at the draw than Malfoy in Defense Against the Dark Arts. But Malfoy didn’t move an inch. He just folded his arms, a single eyebrow raised skeptically. 

Right, Hermione reminded herself. There was little chance Malfoy would feel threatened by the infamously clumsy Mandy Brocklehurst reaching for her wand. Not to mention it would be extremely out of character. She let her arm go limp. “I’m-I’m scared,” she forced herself to whimper. “Please don’t make me do this.”

“Mandy,” Malfoy said, in a gentler, coaxing tone, “I _need you_. To help me. You're the only one who can.” He reached out and took one of her hands in his. Hermione couldn’t quite hide her flinch. His hands were cool and surprisingly calloused for someone who likely had never washed a plate in his life. “It will all be over soon, and no one will know you were involved at all. And there’ll be something in it for you, too. That Ministry salary can’t possibly be enough for a pretty girl like you. A little bonus. Get some custom robes made—blue is your color, I think.” He looked at her, almost, she might say, earnestly, if she didn’t know him. “How about it?”

She nodded her assent, hoping her downward glance would be attributed to bashfulness rather than disgust.

“Excellent.” Malfoy set down his medibag and pulled out a flask of peach colored liquid and a syringe, which he inserted into the flask and filled. 

“Come along.” Malfoy, syringe in hand, approached the column. As she drew closer, Hermione realized, horrified, that the dark shape was in fact a frozen human figure, completely naked, suspended within the ice as if hanging on an invisible meat hook. Long strands of grey-brown hair floated in front of their face, obscuring their identity.

“Injunctive Ice,” Hermione breathed. 

Malfoy shot her a sharp glance. “Yes. I’m surprised you know it.”

_Bloody Know-It-All_, her inner not-Snape hissed. Hermione tried to look as guileless as possible. “Erm, well, it was the answer to the final round for a pub quiz a few years back.” 

Now Malfoy just looked bewildered. “What’s a pub qui—nevermind, I don’t have time for this.”

Malfoy levelled his wand at the column. “_Liquescimus_,” he muttered. As he moved his hand downward, the ice melted away from the figure and it fell forward. Hermione leapt forward to break its fall, cradling the body as it crumpled in her lap. She brushed back the soaked strands of hair.

“Professor Babbling,” she whispered in shock. Save for dark bruising under her eyes, and a pale, almost bluish tint to her lips, the woman didn’t look much different from the reserved woman who always sat next to Professor Sinistra at Hall. Lavender used to have a theory that Babbling had a crush on Snape. Once, she’d even tried to slip Amortentia into the ever-present mug of tea the professor always clutched while lecturing on Ancient Runes. Hermione remembered laughing until she started hiccuping as Lavender and Parvarti offered increasingly ridiculous ideas of what Snape might smell like to her. 

Suddenly, Babbling’s eyes began to flutter, and she let out a soft moan.

“Prop her up,” Malfoy said. Feeling strangely numb, Hermione complied, easing her down so her back was supported by the remains of the ice column. It felt deeply strange to see one of her former professors like this, naked and vulnerable where she had always been so reserved, stiffly buttoned into her robes with the high-necked mandarin collar. Hermione took off her own cloak and draped it over Babbling. It was something, at least, she thought, though very close to nothing.

With a deft movement, Malfoy pushed the air out of the syringe and injected her. Hermione watched as the potion disappeared into Babbling’s veins. Few potions, from what she remembered from _Advanced Potion Making_, required intravenous administration. The ones that did were all exceptionally powerful and dangerous, as they flooded the entire body and brain through the bloodstream, rather than targeting any one sense or organ. 

“When the potion takes effect, you’ll need to pretend you’ve come to her with a tricky translation question. She should be under a powerful hallucination, and her sense of time should be muddled. It shouldn’t prove difficult. You were always a favorite of hers, anyway.”

Hermione frowned. “You knew about that?” Mandy had done an independent study with Babbling fifth-year, when even Hermione hadn’t been invited to do one. 

“It came up in the dossier Pritchard compiled on you after you so nicely jinxed Astoria’s schedule. Say what you will about the fellow; he is thorough.”

Hermione cradled the weight of Babbling’s head in her palm. “How could you. How could you do this to her,” she whispered. 

Malfoy looked down at Babbling for a moment, then he shrugged a single shoulder lightly. “If it were up to me, none of this would have been necessary. But the Peace Keepers got to her first. This is the result. Now, as I said before, _we don’t have much time_. Ask her about this.” 

Malfoy handed her an ancient, cracked bone. When her fingers touched it, Hermione couldn’t help but let out a shudder. It was a human bone. Old magic. Somehow, she was sure of it. Turning it over, she saw a series of deep, scorched grooves carved into its yellowed surface.

“I’ve never seen runes like this before,” she muttered, curiosity piqued.

“Fascinating.” The low, soft voice wasn’t Malfoy’s. 

Hermione froze. Babbling had awoken; a dreamy smile stretched across her face. One of her hands even seemed to be curled around an imaginary mug of tea. Hermione could almost imagine herself back in the classroom, except for the fact that Babbling’s pupils were eerily dilated, so that her eyes appeared completely black. 

“And where did you get that little artifact, Miss Brocklehurst?” 

“I...I borrowed it from a friend.”

“May I?”

Hermione handed the bone over. 

“Exquisitely preserved,” she murmured. “I can hardly believe it.”

“Do you know what it says?” Hermione asked.

“Haven’t the faintest,” Babbling replied.

Any remaining color instantly drained from Malfoy’s face, Hermione noticed with some dark amusement.

“_But_,” Babbling added, “I know where you should look to find out. You see, these aren’t magical runes. They predate the separation of wizarding folk and Muggles in Britannia. My best guess,” she said, tracing the furrows of the carvings with her fingers, “is that this is one of the cryptic variants of Ogham. You might find the answers you’re looking for at the Carnegie Runic Library. That’s where you wanted to apprentice over the summer, isn’t it?”

“Oh! Right. Yes. I’m...erm...hoping to hear back from them soon.”

“I’m sure they’ll want you for the position, Miss Brocklehurst. You should ask to see the Ogham Tract when you’re there. Of course, the Muggles think they’ve got it, but theirs is just a copy,” she sniffed.

From the lapel of his robes, Malfoy pulled out a silver pocket watch on a long chain. He snapped it open and frowned.

“Time's up. Lestrange will be here any minute,” he said, mouth a tight line. At the name, Hermione could feel her stomach sink. Bellatrix’s husband had made a name for himself in the past years as the sadistic and bloodthirsty head of the Peace Keepers. 

Malfoy put away his watch and, from the same pocket, pulled out a tiny vial of clear liquid. “You’ll have to make her take this.”

“What is it?”

“Get her to drink it in one go. She trusts you. It won’t break the delusion. Less painful.”

“If you want me to murder someone, you should at least have the decency to say it,” Hermione snapped, unable to restrain her anger any longer at Malfoy’s insistently calm demeanor. 

Malfoy leveled his most disdainful, icy stare at her. “Very well. Let me make myself perfectly clear. It seems that you’re unaware of some of the unique properties of Injunctive Ice, despite whatever a ‘pub quiz’ may be. The Peace Keepers have gone to great pains to use it in their prisons, because it not only freezes bodies, but time. It will preserve life, as long as there’s the tiniest flicker of it left. So they get to _Crucio_ our distinguished Professor here until she’s drooling and battier than the Longbottoms combined. As long as she’s in the ice, she’ll be good as new in a day or two. That way, you see, the torture never needs to end. So if you’d rather her live like this for the rest of her natural life, or until they get bored and _Avada_ her anyway, well, be my guest.”

He gestured at her, mocking.

It was, Hermione realized, the most words she had ever heard Malfoy put together at once. Hermione met his eyes. They were empty and clear, like mirrors. She could see her own reflection, doubled, then tripled, within them.

“Professor,” she said softly, “Let me pour you another cuppa.” She uncorked the vial and gently wrapped Babbling’s hand around it. 

“Thank you, dear.” Babbling lifted the vial to her lips, then paused. “By the way, how is everything with young Malfoy?”

Hermione froze. “Excuse me?”

“I'm not blind, young lady. It’s incredible you manage to get your work done, the way you moon over the boy in class. Miss Brocklehurst, don’t make the fatal mistake of letting a boy distract you from your education. Especially not someone going to the bad like him. You have the potential to go far as a runic scholar if you apply yourself.”

“Yes, Professor, I’ll—I’ll keep that in mind,” Hermione said. 

Babbling lifted the vial to her lips and drank deeply, then sagged against the column of ice, eyes fluttering closed.

“Though, when I think about it, the child’s not completely hopeless. He’s just...let’s say...lost...” she said, trailing off with a sigh. 

Malfoy palmed the vial from Babbling’s loosening fist. She noted with a vicious satisfaction that he looked slightly shaken, the indifferent air he normally wore as his armor off-kilter for once. 

“We need to leave,” he said, turning on his heel and picking up his medibag.

“No,” Hermione said quietly. “I’m not letting Professor Babbling die alone. Not like this.” She gripped Babbling’s hand. She could feel each of the woman’s breaths coming more slowly than the last.

“She’s already dead, you daft girl. Do you want to be found by Lestrange?”

“You go ahead.” Hermione stroked back Babbling’s hair. Who would care that she was dead, Hermione wondered. Did she have a partner? A family? Or even a familiar? And another, darker, more cowardly part of her wondered, was this how she would die? Alone and naked on the floor, deep in the bowels of the Ministry?

Malfoy shrugged, as if to say, _suit yourself_, and strode toward the door. But he hesitated as he was about to push it open, hand hovering in midair. And then he did a strange thing. He just stood there, neither turning back towards her, nor leaving. The chamber was completely silent save for Babbling’s rattling breaths. 

They stayed that way, Hermione holding the dying woman in the center of the room, Malfoy frozen in the doorway, until the breaths ceased to come. Hermione gently closed Babbling’s lids. Death, she thought, was wonderfully simple in the way life never could be. "Goodbye, Professor," Hermione whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Malfoy didn’t acknowledge what had just transpired. He merely pulled out his pocket watch once again, as if he were late to tea. “Get into the corner. Don’t draw attention to yourself,” he said. Something in his tone made Hermione do as she was told. Malfoy sat down in one of the armchairs, crossed his legs, and poured himself a snifter of Firewhiskey.

As if on cue, the door burst open with a bang. Lestrange stormed in, robes flying, wand raised, four masked Peace Keepers a step behind him. 

“Uncle,” Malfoy said, without turning around. He took a deliberate drink from his glass. “I’m afraid you’re too late. The prisoner has succumbed to her injuries. Unfortunately.” The armor was back.

Lestrange stalked forward until the tip of his wand was pressed against the back of Malfoy’s head.

“The Dark Lord will hear about this,” Lestrange hissed.

“He certainly will.” Malfoy suddenly stood, whipped around so he was face to face with Lestrange. “Because _I_ will be informing him that the Peace Keepers’ negligence led to the entirely preventable death of a crucial intelligence asset.” Malfoy shook his head with mock disappointment. “This, you must understand, is why the Department of Mysteries should be handling intelligence. We have a—how should I put it—more delicate touch.” 

Lestrange didn’t move a muscle, his dark eyes pinned on Malfoy, who, looking bored, stood with a hand in his pocket. Then, as if some invisible battle had been lost, Lestrange stepped back, sheathing his wand. He nodded at the body. “Take it away. The Potions division has been running low on ingredients.”

Two of the Peace Keepers nodded. A _Levicorpus_ jerked Babbling’s body airborne, her limbs ragdolling in the air, as if she were nothing more than sack of flesh.

Hermione shuddered, thinking of the Dark potions that required human body parts. Dark potions like her own modified Polyjuice, she reminded herself. Arguably Snape’s greatest invention which, ironically, would be kept hidden forever. She and Lupin had agreed that they would destroy the recipe after the war was over. It was a potion far too dangerous to exist. 

Lestrange turned to Malfoy. “I trust my sister-in-law is well? I believe tomorrow is a full moon. Perhaps I’ll send along a couple Muggles for her as a treat. After all, family must look out for one another.”

Malfoy’s face could have been carved from marble. “I recommend avoiding listening to baseless rumors lest you embarrass yourself, Uncle. Mother is merely convalescing after accidentally handling a cursed pair of earrings. I’ll be sure to send her your well wishes.”

Spinning on his heel, Malfoy walked swiftly out of the room. Hermione rushed to follow him, ducking her head as she passed Lestrange. Behind her the Peackekeepers chuckled as they bounced Babbling’s body up and down, making her breasts bounce and jiggle. The sound of their laughter seemed to follow her, down the hall, up the elevator, into the street and the soft light of the summer evening.


	7. Seven

Hermione woke with a start. Someone was banging at her door. She struggled to untangle her legs from her sheets, soaked with now-cooling sweat. The nightmare was evaporating already—she’d been freezing—frozen—the acid green flash of spellwork—a pale, drawn face floated above her—and like that it was gone, the last fragments lost to the sound of someone redoubling their efforts to break down her door.

“Who is it?” she called out, stumbling out of her bedroom and looking through the peephole on her front door. A curvy, middle-aged redhead in tight Muggle athletic wear and a full face of makeup looked back at her. Hermione groaned internally, wrapping her dressing gown more tightly around herself, and opened the door.

“Morning, love,” the woman trilled. “Thank Merlin! I was starting to worry something had happened! Hope I didn’t wake you.” 

Nosy bint, Hermione thought, a trifle uncharitably. She’d spotted the redhead skulking about the past week, craning her head and and jogging past Hermione’s flat extra slowly, cornering her to make small talk whenever she checked the post with such regularity the woman must have been running a stakeout.

“Erm, Tamora, is it?”

“Yes, so kind of you to remember. I was thinking you must have missed my little note inviting you to brunch today—not to worry about oversleeping though; I know things must be hectic right now.”

Hermione somehow found herself being hustled out of her apartment, protests waved away by a well-manicured hand, and shoved down the hall into Tamora’s neighboring flat. 

A cloud of warm scents greeted her as Tamora swept aside a beaded curtain to a cascade of tinkling crystals. Where Hermione’s flat was bare and austere, Tamora’s flat was cluttered and colorful, every flat surface covered with strange knicknacks, candles, old issues of _The Inner Eye_ and _Witch Weekly_, walls draped with brightly patterned cloths and tapestries. Tamora gently nudged a large black Kneazle off a stack of cushions, who hissed at them and slowly sauntered off. 

“Budge over, Buffy. Now, I’ll just go warm up the buns and make a fresh pot of tea. Won’t be a minute,” she called out over her shoulder and she swept into the kitchen.

Hermione suddenly felt a pang of guilt for outright binning the woman’s scribbled invitation that had appeared on her doorstep the other day. Even more so when Tamora reentered the room, staggering under the weight of an enormous breakfast tray, piled high with custard buns, rashers of bacon, a basket of strawberries, and what looked to be a towering cheese souffle. 

“You must be starving; you’re thinner than a bleeding bowtruckle,” she said, pouring Hermione a strong cup of tea. “Go on and try a bun, love, they’re rather moreish, if I do say so myself.”

Despite her best efforts, Hermione heard her stomach let out a loud grumble. Not only had she been surviving off of bland Ministry canteen food and stale biscuits for the past week, ever since she’d killed—no, _ murdered _, she corrected herself—Professor Babbling, she couldn’t seem to bring herself to eat much besides the burnt toast Lupin used to communicate with her in the mornings.

“Oh, dear.” Suddenly, Tamora’s hand seized her own. “I can see from your aura that you have suffered a terrible loss—no—” she frowned, “not merely a loss, but you feel you have betrayed yourself. Your spirit is positively clogged with dark clouds of guilt and shame.” 

“I—” for once, Hermione was at a loss for words. Was it possible Tamora knew more than she let on? Did she even, possibly— 

“No, no, don’t try to speak of it yet. You’re not ready.” Tamora shook her head dramatically. “Matters of the heart cannot be forced. And men are pigs.”

Hermione relaxed. Right, she’d forgotten. Tamora was Divinator of All Things Amatory and Erotic. It said so right on the card. “I-incredible! How could you _ possibly _ have known?” she gushed.

Tamora smiled enigmatically at her. “It is the Inner Eye that guides me, my dear. I am merely the humble conduit. But,” she added with a raised eyebrow, “if you’re interested in more readings, my rate is _ verry _ reasonable.”

“Yes, that would be...brilliant!” Hermione tried to enthuse. “Divination is such a helpful, and, erm, _ accurate _ branch of magic, after all.”

“Magnificent. I think a regular aura reading to start—we can add some supplementary oracle bone readings if you’d like as well.” Tamora clapped her hands together with glee, Galleons no doubt dancing in her Inner Eye. “I can tell we’ll be great friends, Mandy,” she said, beaming at her. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” Hermione said, surprising herself when she discovered it wasn’t a complete falsehood. Tamora, though irritating, also felt familiar, or perhaps she was familiar because she was irritating. It reminded her of nights spying on Lavender and Parvarti’s side of the dormitory through her bed curtains, the two always giggling over silly quizzes and hair potions and luscious sweets Parvarti’s mum would owl them every week, as opposed to Hermione’s side, which was filled mainly with stacks of books and sugar-free mints. 

“So,” Tamora said as she scooped a spoon into the souffle, which deflated with an audible puff of steam, “how are you adjusting to the move?”

“Well, I do miss the States, but it is nice to be able to pop down to the pub for a proper Butterbeer in the evenings,” Hermione said, spreading rhubarb preserves on her third bun of the morning. “And work has been fine; uneventful, really. Getting anything approved at the Ministry is like squeezing a Bubotuber.”

Tamora stiffened almost imperceptibly for a moment. “Oh! I didn’t realize you worked for the Ministry,” she said airily.

“Yes, in the Department of Information,” Hermione replied.

“How—how wonderful it is that you’re contributing to the Dark Lord’s vision. It must be very, very exciting to be part of history,” Tamora said. Her smile looked as painted on as her crimson lipstick. “Oh, my,” she added, making a show of checking the clock on the wall. “Would you look at the time! I've got a client meeting soon, I’m afraid.” 

Just as quickly as Hermione had been bustled in, she found herself being shown the door. 

“Also, Mandy, I’m just now realizing that my client list might be a tad full. I do apologize, but I’m not sure if I can squeeze you in.” 

“Wait.” Hermione stopped the door from slamming shut. “I—” She faltered, unsure what to say, what to risk.

“Yes?” Tamora’s eyes, from the crack in the door, were guarded.

“The Ministry...it’s—it’s just a job for me. That’s all.”

Tamora smiled thinly. “Ciao!” she snapped, slamming the door closed with a bang that reverberated down the hall.

* * *

Monday morning, Hermione was disappointed to see that Malfoy’s move to become her new office-mate was not, in fact, a nightmare dreamed up by her sadistic psyche to torture her, but in fact her new reality. 

“Just ignore him,” Astoria told her at their morning briefing. “Draco’s like a toddler throwing a tantrum when he gets like this. Any more attention and his head’s liable to swell up like a Pygmy Puff.”

Hermione couldn’t completely hide her snort. “Perhaps you could just take a meeting to appease him?” she asked. “It’s just that the whole situation is causing a bit of a fuss.” 

A bit of a fuss was an understatement. Not only was Malfoy constantly shouting for Pritchard to fetch this or that, a constant stream of supplicants, brown-nosers, favor-askers, and bureaucratic blowhards were now crowding Hermione’s office space as they waited their turn to be either berated, threatened, or smooth-talked into submission by Malfoy. And Hermione was starting to become familiar with the population of single young witches at the Ministry, who seemed to have nothing better to do with their time than drop their quills seductively around his desk now that Malfoy wasn’t hidden behind the imposing doors of the Department of Mysteries. 

As for the two of them, they seemed to have come to an unspoken agreement never to acknowledge one another’s existence unless absolutely necessary, which suited Hermione very well. Though Pritchard _ had _ slipped her a few biscuits this morning with a shy smile. 

Astoria shook her head. “I’m done discussing the matter with him. At this point, he’s refusing to see reason. It’s that damned Slytherin sense of chivalry.”

Hermione refrained from raising an eyebrow. “Slytherin chivalry” was not a term Hermione was familiar with, mainly because it seemed to be a complete oxymoron. 

“No, just leave Draco be for the time being. If necessary, I’ll speak to Narcissa about the matter. More important is the policy review meeting for the Wizarding Security Act tomorrow afternoon. Those bastards over at the Department of Peace moved it up from next week to try to push it through,” Astoria said fiercely, even as she set her gold-rimmed teacup down with a gentle _ clink _. She turned to Hermione, a tiny furrow wrinkling her usually placid brow. “Mandy, I hope I can rely on you to do something for me. Discreetly.”

Hermione nodded, mind moving rapidly. She’d read through all six hundred pages of the Wizarding Security Act over the weekend after Astoria had asked her to draft a response. Co-authored by Rabastan and Umbridge, who had stamped it with her signature, near-impenetrable bureaucratic jargon, the act was a sweeping radicalization of the anti-Muggle laws Yaxley’s Ministry had put in place. 

Aside from a slew of additional restrictions on the liberty and rights of magical creatures, the law would criminalize not only muggleborns, but also anyone who had direct muggle relatives, relationships, or even just suspected “Muggle sympathies.” Worse, the age limit which prevented children from being prosecuted by the Wizengamot, sent to Azkaban, or given the Kiss would be lifted. 

Hermione felt a surge of ice cold conviction at the thought, the foundation for which she had been searching ever since she’d begun this assignment so lost and in the dark. She’d often pondered, in the years since the Battle of Hogwarts, watching friends and strangers alike maimed, tortured, and killed, and, possibly worse, teach themselves to maim, torture, and kill, whether one might corporealize the certainty of righteous anger into a powerful spell, much like the Patronus, but to attack, rather than to defend. She felt, though not for the first time, as if she could, no, _ would _ do anything to end the cruelty and madness of the world, as if she were invincible, even to her own conscience.

“I need you to personally deliver a letter for me,” Astoria said, jerking Hermione forcefully back into the moment. For now, all she could do was wait. _ Dependable. Unimportant. Unnoticed_, she reminded herself. 

Astoria slid a slim, unmarked envelope across the desk. Hermione looked down and caught just the faintest shimmer of a spell pinned to the plain wax seal, almost imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t highly skilled at Charms. Likely an enchantment to only reveal the contents of the letter to its rightful recipient, she thought, tucking it into her briefcase. “Where to?"

Astoria took a slow sip of her tea, then said, almost absentmindedly, “What a shame. The windows have sorted out again.”

As she spoke, the ever present blue skies “outside” were suddenly roiled by dark clouds, casting a deep grey gloom over the normally sunny room. Torrential rain lashed the bespelled walls. “Be a dear and pop down to Magical Maintenance, will you? There’s a wizard assigned to this level; Orkney is his name, I believe. Orkney Cracknell.”

* * *

Magical Maintenance was about as far from the grandeur of the Department of Peace or the glamour of the Department of Information as one could possibly be. 

A stout, red-faced woman in what looked to be a hazmat suit, when asked about the whereabouts of “Mr. Cracknell” had snapped, “Prob’ly hiding out in Supply Room Sixteen as usual, taking his elevenses instead of helping with the flesh-eating slug infestation on level three,” then stormed off in a huff.

Hermione made her way through the damp, dimly lit corridors, stacked high with dusty chests, armchairs bursting at the seams, and filing cabinets that no doubt once housed important papers but now were infested with doxy nests. At last, in the very farthest, most remote, dead-end corner, she found a door marked with a large “16.” She hesitated before it. 

While Mandy definitely wouldn’t be able to undo the seal on Astoria’s letter without triggering it, Hermione very likely could. Though, she hesitated, fingering her wand, there was a slim chance that she might accidentally trigger a fail-safe, notifying Astoria and thus losing her trust, if not blowing her cover entirely. 

Before she could make up her mind one way or another, the door was jerked open. 

“Goin’ ter stand there all day?”

A squat, bald, middle-aged man with incongruously massive biceps was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, scowling at her. Something about him struck her as familiar, but she couldn’t quite work out where she’d met him before.

“Oh! Mr. Cracknell, I presume?”

In lieu of a reply, the man turned and went back inside. “Come on in,” he called over his shoulder.

The man lowered himself with a grunt onto a chair facing a battered wood stove at the far end of the room, then kicked a wooden crate marked “CAUTION: HANDLE WITH CARE” closer to the fire, gesturing for Hermione to sit down, which she did, gingerly.

“Cuppa?” he asked, gruffly.

“Erm, I really...” she trailed off as Cracknell poured amber liquid from a flask into two chipped mugs and handed her one. She took a whiff. Definitely something a little stronger than tea. Hermione coughed and set down the cup.

“Sorry to bother you, sir. I’m just here to deliver a message from Ms. Greengrass,” she said as she slipped him the missive. 

Cracknell wiped his moustache and cracked open the seal on the envelope. His eyes narrowed as he scanned Astoria’s delicate handwriting, then he crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the gaping maw of the stove.

Slightly taken aback, Hermione asked, “Did you have a reply, sir?”

Cracknell didn’t reply for a long moment, eyes fixed on the crackling flames, where the letter had caught and was now burning merrily.

“First off, no more o’ that ‘sir’ tripe. Name’s Cracknell, Ork to me friends.” He took a gulp out of his cup. “Second, who’re you, anyways?”

“I’m Mandy Brocklehurst, Ms. Greengrass’s new assistant.” Suddenly, she realized where she’d seen him before. “We met on my first day. You gave me directions to Astoria’s office.”

Cracknell showed no apparent signs of recognition. Instead, he replied, “Mandy, eh? Funny. You don’t strike me as a Mandy.” And then, in a complete non sequitur, “So, Mandy, what d’you think o’ Squibs?”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand your meaning, sir—Cracknell.”

“What’s not to understan’? Squibs. Like ‘em, hate ‘em, eat ‘em fer breakfast?”

“I— Hermione floundered, feeling like she’d put her foot in her mouth no matter what her response. “I’m not exactly paid to think around here,” she joked, weakly. _ Humor’s not exactly your strong point, is it_, her inner not-Snape voice mocked. 

He grunted. “Tha’s what I thought. Politicians, every one of yeh.” Hermione considered explaining to him that she wasn’t actually a politician, then decided to avoid accidentally offending him further.

Cracknell pulled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one using the wood stove, then took a long drag. “Yeh can tell Ms. Greengrass I’ll ha’ her windows fixed by tomorrow afternoon.”

* * *

The _ ding _ of the lift doors brought Hermione back into the bustle and gleam of the Department of Information. She hurried back to her desk, dreading the pile of letters and requests that had no doubt piled up even in the brief interval of her absence. Mind circling on her strange interaction with Cracknell, she almost didn’t notice the strange sight that greeted her.

The office was uncharacteristically hushed, no sign of Pritchard, single witches, or frazzled Department of Information employees needing Astoria’s sign-off on articles or whitepapers. Malfoy was for once sitting stock-still and silent at his desk, quill drooping loosely in his hand. 

His face, which Hermione previously thought had a range limited to cruel, ferrety, smug, or coaxing, was strangely—shockingly—open. His thin lips, normally curved in a mocking smile or pulled down in a grimace of displeasure, were slightly parted; his gaze intent. Hermione followed his line of vision across the room, and realized what, or rather who, Malfoy was staring at.

Astoria was seated at her desk, lips moving silently as she deliberated over some document she was composing. Her dark lashes, swept downwards, fluttered faintly, unaware she was being watched by two pairs of eyes. Surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass walls, which were currently being lashed by icy droves of rain, Astoria, in her fuschia and amber-toned silk robes, resembled nothing so much as a tropical bird-of-paradise, caught and carted to more bitter climes, as one might a precious pet or rare specimen.

“Mr. Malfoy, I’ve brought the post—oh, Miss Brocklehurst, my apologies. I didn’t see you there.” Pritchard, with his impeccable sense of timing, had burst in, breaking the spell Malfoy seemed to be under. Now that Hermione had seen him without his mask, she could spot the miniscule, infinitesimally quick changes involved in putting it back together, how his jaw tensed, one corner of his mouth tuggled sardonically to the right, left eyebrow ever-so-slightly raised, so that he again resembled the Malfoy she once thought she knew.

“Bloody hell, is that all?” Malfoy asked, incredulous.

Pritchard floated an enormous stack of letters, folders, and dossiers in all shapes and sizes down with a thump. “There seems to have been a mixup in the mailroom, sir. Due to our recent relocation. I’ll see to it immediately, of course. Also, a parcel came for you.”

Hermione continued on her way to debrief Astoria on Crackney’s response to her letter, when she heard Malfoy mutter, almost to himself, “From Astoria?”

She turned back, confused. Hermione handled all of Astoria’s post, and there hadn’t been any parcels for Malfoy. Moreover, Astoria would hardly send Malfoy anything, as, first of all, she wasn’t on speaking terms with him at the moment, and second, he was located only a few steps away from her own office.

Malfoy was frowning. “Why would she tie the damned thing up like this?” he asked as he _ Diffindo_-ed the twine and then the brown wrapping paper, pulling out, of all things, what looked to be a muggle digital watch attached to a nest of colorful wires. 

She was moving before she knew it, _ too slow_, she had time to think, _ too slow_, and she felt, rather than heard, a screamed word ripped from her throat, as if she were outside her own body. A deafening blast hurtled her through the air cracking her head against the floor. Her last impression was of thousands of tiny fragments of paper floating down to her through the smoke, like a snow storm in slow motion, and then the world was cut by void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this chapter has taken me. I was really struggling with figuring out how to advance the plot without boring the hell out of everyone. Hopefully it worked. Whether it worked for you or not, I always appreciate constructive criticism :)


End file.
